the innocents

Blurb:

Who will they strike next?

Every 10 years, 5 children are chosen by Pan to serve in his army, the Defenders, warriors blessed with long life, Godly powers, and the passion to save the wilderness from an evil, prophesized destiny. Well, that was the case. Until almost a century ago, when the battle of man vs nature arose. Now, the world tears itself apart, and, with no army to defend itself, nature found itself in a state of disrepair. Will the innocents find a way to restore balance, or will mankind fulfill the prophecy and end Pan for good?

prologue

Sam Chavez's story

Before I saw the crow, I heard it.

*

I knew the forest outside my house was wild- I just didn’t know how wild. I always used to stare at it from my bedroom window, wondering if the rumors were true.

‘The trees come alive at night,’, Mum used to say.

‘The animals morph into beasts,' Mum used to say.

And worst of all, Mum used to think magic lurked in the forest. evil magic.

People thought she was mad. Maybe she was. But all chaos stems from truth, right?

So that’s why I decided to take a stroll. In the woods. At midnight.

*

The noise amplified the moment I stepped outside. The owls that skulk in the whispering trees screeched out their opinions into the air. Hunched hunters - the name for the local wolves - prowled in search of prey, heard wailing the same death cry over and over again. If you ever come across one, though I doubt you will unless you are one of the five, you may spot their glistening spiky hide, or perhaps the two different colored eyes, green and yellow. If you are lucky, or rather, unlucky, you might even notice the engraved writing on their left ear, which reads: ‘ubi aer non est, ubi humus non est, ubi nocentes, resurgemus.. ‘

I went over all this in my head. Staring back at where I had come from, I registered how far I had walked already; the trees had closed in behind me, so black blocked out my field of vision from where I had come from. Hmm. Odd.

I walked on. Once or twice, I thought about going back. No. No, I must get to the bottom of this! Another me argued that my bed was waiting, my father worrying, my sister curious and my dog restless. But I just kept on walking.

After around an hour, my head started to droop, and drowsiness overcame curiosity; looking at my watch I squinted to see the digits. three a.m. already! I suddenly realized how much time I had spent dwelling on the rumors.

As I treaded over to a nearby tree to camp there for a spell, my eyes seemed to play tricks on me. I looked up at the shrubs and suddenly eyes were peering at me, great yellow ones, and then it got worse as mouths appeared, all splintered and dry and leafy. The mouths start to move in ways thought impossible, and on the spur of a moment I had a fleeting thought that they were conferring with each other, mumbling, muttering under their large oak beards. Promptly remembering what Mum had said, the pieces came together in one wild mess, and I let out a scream that had been on the edge of my throat for the past hour, producing the most terrible noise that the woods had heard for a long time. Because the trees. Were. Alive.

Theo Coleman’s story

The scream thundered on for what- an hour? A day? A year?? After long, it started to gurgle in my throat and became more of a mild croak.

I fell to my knees. The trees still towered there, sticky yellow eyes inquisitive and bright, mouths gaping like a fish. But my heart had slowed a bit, so now I had a chance to re-enter reality, or rather, the reality I thought I knew but obviously didn’t, because, well, there were talking trees in it.

Dad had talked about this. His notepad had evidence of this. Subtly, he had been preparing me for this my entire life, but where was he now? Where had he been the last 2 years?

Swallowing, my head tried to wrap itself round the situation, but it just couldn’t seem to. Talking trees. Spooky forest. Unreal reality that was just about destroying my brain and all the life I've ever known.

And would anybody care, care for my soul, my happiness, my life without dad, my life at the foster home?

Realizing my fate, swallowing back cries, blinking back tears, I closed my eyes as the towering figures circled around me and swallowed me whole.

Tessa Russo's story

It was looking at me.

The grass. Razor sharp, glinting faces, waving in the wind; smiling innocently.

Were they smiling?

“I'm just gonna check out those butterflies near those woods, I've read about them and I'm gonna try catch one. You stay here Lyra, okay?” I broke the chirp of the birds with my voice.

It was a silly excuse. But Lyra, my sister, was only 8, intent on finishing her sandwich and the rest of her picnic food. The tricky person to convince was mum, which is why I planned the perfect getaway.

“When mum comes back,” I began, "just tell her, ya got that, lyra?” “Kay!” Lyra exclaimed, happily, still focused on her food.

Good. Now was my chance. Without looking back, I slipped silently into the shadows of the forest.

*

As the trees closed around me to form a dome, I realized that mum had been right about one thing. It was spooky. The birdsong had stopped, sickly green wilderness muffling the hum of the outside world. It was like another dimension entirely. Stepping forward onto a branch, the crunch of splintering wood bullied my pounding heart to pump even louder.

I hummed to myself. A familiar tune; a song my dad always used to sing. ‘I see trees of green, red roses too; I see them bloom, for me and you. And I think to myself... What a wonderful worl-’

Crunch. Another twig. Louder, this time.

‘I see skies of blue, and clouds of white...the bright blessed day, The dark sacred night. And I think to myself What a wonderful-’

Snap. Ok, that definitely wasn’t me.

As I took a hesitant step forward, I didn’t even have time to scream as darkness enveloped me in its dark embrace, scooping me up and dragging me away. The trees.

Ah.

Christopher Waller’s story

I know what you were thinking. Geek, nerd, loves books; surely, I must have known at least something about the moving trees outside my house.

Nope. Never. Not a clue.

Should I have listened to mum warning me about them years back? Maybe. Maybe my abnormally large nose was stuck inside a book that was titled, ‘how to be cool and not read books.’

But I didn’t listen. And now I’m waiting, patiently, for the trees to take me away.

*

Sitting cross-legged on a rough patch of grass, fleeting thoughts rushed through my brain. Was this really worth it? Would they take me to a better place? Would I be saved from the sharp words raining down on me?

Would I see my mother again?

Never mind. They were probably just a myth. Still... something ached inside of me. I yearned to learn the secrets of the forest, to be part of something that wasn’t out of place. That wasn’t...me.

Hours went by. Years, my whole 17 years of life flashing before my eyes, making them shine like diamonds, tears dripping down my face like roads of fiery hell.

Soon, the soft squeeze of sleep coiled inside of me, warping my harsh reality into sweet dreams.

Dreams of nature, of vines holding me tight, dragged me into the earth. Then when I awoke, my dreams came true.

Sylvie Mueller's story

The cacophonous sound of wailing sirens filled me with dread as I fled from the flashing lights. They will not find me. I will not be found.

I ran past a busy street in London, passed another busy street in London, then another, and another. They were all the same to me. Filled with arrogant, selfish human beings. My heart willed with all its power that nature would take me in, away from it all. Away from my mum, who kept me locked away from her heart. Away from dad, who wouldn't care less who, what, or where I was. He hadn't for 15 years.

At last, through all the tall buildings and blinding lights, I could squint to see green. Calm, silent, green.

I'd had enough of this world, fleeing from its shelter two weeks ago on to the bitterly cold streets.

At least now I could breathe.

I reached the edge of the trees, panting hard as a dog would after chasing a ball around. I wished that one day I would feel that kind of freedom again.

The wilderness in front of me looked sympathetic as I collapsed in front of them.

Why would anyone dream of destroying their beauty?

Slowly, branches reaching out as if to comfort me, they entwined themselves around me gently and picked me up. My body was limp.

On the edge of consciousness, I could just make out the flashing lights and the wailing cries of the police end for the night, the search for kidnapped kids now over. They would continue in the morning, once the sun had risen, to resume their slaughtering of the wild. The war between mankind and nature was in full swing, and I was in the middle of it.

Chapter 1: the defenders

Leaning back on the chair that had been provided for the meeting in Watford, Charles Subdola observed every person in the circular room. There were at least 3 dozen members of the personatus board present, including famous figures like Madeleine Hartley- inventor of the ‘tree stalker’, designed to track down moving plant life; Zachery Taylor, a scientist famous for his hatred of the wilderness and flaming desire to rid the world of it; and many, many more.

However, it was Eva Morrow, the head of the board, who hushed the crowd with her glaring, crystal blue eyes, before speaking up.

“We are gathered here today to, as hopefully you have surmised, discuss the recent case of missing children, over the past 4 weeks.

London, Oxford, Essex; these are just a few cities that have all been affected by these kidnappings. Parents are getting edgy: not taking their child to school, locking them indoors, not allowing mere sunlight to touch their skin. We must take immediate action to ensure the safety of the public-” “Are we not already doing enough?” a portly man that Charles vaguely recognized as being Dr Sykes piped up, beneath his bristling moustache. “I acknowledge that England is in a great state of distress at this time, but how much more can we do? Shouldn’t we simply let the government sort it out, as this is not even our area of expertise? We do not know for certain that it is the trees, you know!”

“It is the trees.” Zachery Taylor said firmly. This led to chaos, dozens of voices protesting over the top of each other, grappling with each other's opinions like a dog fight. It was too loud, voices echoing in the room despite the number of people in it, fighting over each other to be heard.

Charles simply frowned.

“Silence!” Eva screamed. A vein pulsed outwardly on the side of her head: she had had enough. “Silence, all of you! This is not the discussion we should be having right now. Our main issue is- is-” she brought her voice to a whisper, but what she said next brought an uproar capable of frightening a lion. Everyone in the room was tuned in to her voice. “How we overcome the-”

Charles already knew the last word she would utter. It was what he had been placed here to do in the first place, 10 years ago. In fact, he was the last word she would utter. A part of it, at least. He was part of the-

“Defenders.”

*

An uproar, Charles could only describe it as, as he dwelt on the meeting in a small cafe that evening. The crowd had gone ballistic; vague rumors about the defenders were shared like sweets, altered and twisted and deceited. Many members who knew nothing were piecing together the whispers into long, dwindling, evil tales about half-men, half-demon creatures lurking in the shadows, planning to end the race of humankind. Others told stories of tribes who cut their eyes out and offered them to their gods. Some even warned others that they walk among us, look like us, speak like us, but become monsters under the moon.

Stories.

But many stories are tru-

“Small or large?”

“Huh?”

“Sir, you said you wanted a coffee. So, small or large?”

“Oh, sorry, umm... Sarah, is it?” Charles squinted at the waitress's name tag. “I'd like a large, please. And the latest newspaper if possible?”

“of course, sir.” The waitress, Sarah, bowed her head and left Charles alone at his table once more.

*

Sipping his coffee a few minutes later, he read the newspaper with great distress. ‘Protect your kids!’ one headline read. “Government in distress as kids get gobbled up!" Another: “personatus board to rescue England from itself?” It was terrible. The government had no control over the press, so naturally, they wrote complete and utter nonsense. Soon, whispers of the Defenders would come out, and, in the blink of an eye, they would be exposed to the world.

Charles reminisced on all the good the Defenders had done and could barely believe that the war that had been prophesized might finally be upon them.

Not even a century of peace. Not even a century.

Chapter 2: sweet dreams

Charles

The year was 1930. Death was in the air. Pan was awakened.

Gunfire, I remembered hearing. Grenades being thrown, explosions of dirt and blood, stepping over unrecognizable bodies that were mangled and deformed. I knew that, though I had been granted with long lasting life just weeks ago, we were not immortal. We will die. And sooner than I thought, now that it didn’t seem like there was any hope of stopping the deaths around me.

The Defenders were doing their best to not kill, and to protect the greenery behind them: not that it was very green, as smoke and dust were blackening the surroundings. But it was difficult.

The Attackers, as they were called, were fighting with tooth and claw. Their guns couldn’t penetrate our armor, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t fling themselves at us, using kitchen knives and rakes to bring us down.

Vaguely, I heard someone calling my name. Turning around, I just had enough time to duck before a tattooed man swung at me with his axe, his eyes burning. Undefended for half a second, the man's eyes widened as I brought my fist upwards in an arc, the satisfying sound of ribs breaking telling me I had hit the right place. The Attacker's breath went out of him before collapsing to the ground in a heap. Somehow, he was dead.

A shame.

Beside me, another newbie- Duncan Waller- was fighting off a surly woman with a knife in each hand. It seemed to be going Duncan’s way until he was caught off guard and got stabbed in the Shoulder. Crying out, I leapt towards the woman with unnatural speed and took her down, giving Duncan a chance to recover from the shock. But before I had the chance to blink, I vaguely noticed a dagger thrusted at me, heading straight for my eye. The woman, who had been sprawled on the grass beneath me, had wasted the last of her energy with one, desperate swing towards my face.

Before the light went out, I grasped one last, fleeting glance at the battlefield. London was unrecognizable, as the sky was as blackened as tar. Ruislip Woods, behind me, was strung with the remaining Defenders: there were less than a dozen left, which meant that the other few dozen had either fled, or...had gone. At least they had gone down as warriors, unlike the frauds who ran away. They would soon, if not already, be stripped of their blessing from Pan, the worst curse you could receive in our culture. At least I would go down as a warrior, as I closed my eyes one last time.

Maybe I'll meet Pan along the journey.

*

CRASH!

Glistening with sweat, I peeled off my sweaty t shirt in attempt to cool down. I picked up my alarm clock from the wooden floorboards with wet hands, checking to see if there was a crack in the glass: I must've hit it pretty hard when it went off.

For once, I had woken up in a familiar bed. My childhood bedroom gave me nostalgia, as I glanced round the room in recollection. A box of abandoned board games; a stack of books; a stuffed toy that looked particularly bedraggled; and in the corner, of course, the pile of unwashed clothes in a heap beside my bed. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed for 90 years. It was a wonder that builders hadn't come to knock it down. Perhaps nobody had dared go into Ruislip Woods since all those years ago.

I stretched, widening the ugly scar running through my eye, and contemplated what I should wear. It was a big day today.

After filing through several tops, I shrugged a striped, scarlet shirt onto my shoulders and sunk back into the bed, bouncing there for a moment. Would the old crew still recognize me? Would they want to see me? And what was it all about, anyway? We hadn't seen each other since the last battle, when we had gone our separate ways. What a mistake that was. Maybe some were still fighting, still trying. But it was useless, I told myself, as I unclenched my fists, as I swallowed back my regret.

Maybe I shouldn’t have turned my back on them so quickly.

*

“The back room of a pub! Seriously?” Jaden Hartley, glamorous and naïve as ever, exclaimed. Although, as naïve as he was, was right: huddled in the storage room of a pub, ‘the water’s edge’, were over a dozen Defenders, some of them I easily recognized, some not so much.