Guys please can you post replies on what you think of this? Chapters V and VI coming soon!
Chapter I
The sun shone brightly over the playing fields, and the white figures of the boys playing cricket. The heat rose in a sweltering wave, threatening to engulf all in its heat.
On the ground, the boys of Sandroyd School were engaged in a fierce battle against their deadliest rivals. The humiliation of being beaten by Port Regis earlier in the term was a bitter knife against their consciences. Every boy gave his all, whether it was in the field, at the bat or with the ball. The Port Regis boys were less motivated and seemed to be fighting a losing battle. They wavered at 158-7 before declaring shortly before five in the evening. Sandroyd raced to this total in a short while, smashing the score, high as it was, 159-4. The game was over by seven. Sandroyd had beaten Port Regis for the last time.
The cricketers, the white starched clothes not quite so stiff now, marched back into the school in fine Sandroydian style; their bats shoved jauntily under one arm. They had seen off the Port Regis boys, who were surly and quiet, and were looking forward to relating the story to the other boys. The 1st XI was on top of the world that day. They had beaten their rivals and had regained the Wessex Boys Cricket Trophy for Sandroyd, reinstating a ten year long tradition. Sandroyd were winners all round.
The boys strode jauntily up to the Senior Wing, after having changed back into their cords and shirts, and resumed normal life. Many of the Year Eight’s swarmed to hear their tale, listening eagerly as the Captain, Charlie Goodwin, retold the story, exaggerating of course. Port Regis would have done exactly the same thing.
Eventually, bed time came and the boys trundled off to bed gratefully, for it had been a long day and they, although they did not admit it, were shatteringly tired. Soft beds welcomed them; sleep embraced them. The day drew to a close.
Yet out there, beyond the range of hills between the school and Shaftesbury, the nearest town, something was awakening. Something that should have definitely been asleep. Something evil was coming to Sandroyd. For it had sensed the power of The Music was strong. And it was hungry.
The blackness arose out of the copse of oak trees where it had been resting and glided silently down to the river. There it found a fox, hunting. Soon the hunter became the hunted as the shadow leapt on it, devouring it and leaving only a small pile of ash at the rivers edge, to be blown away by the cool eastern wind.
The creature sniffed the wind and growled softly to itself. The fox’s blood dripped from its square jaw, as it rose silently. The wraith of the Night was content. For now.
Yet even now, in the creatures black heart, something was amiss. For it could remember that it had not always been a wraith, but a creature of the sun and of the fields, a being similar to those it felt the need to devour. It paused, and entered its innermost core to locate the source of its discomfort. Somewhere, in the very central chamber of the creatures being, it was revolted at what it had become, a mere parasite, living off the life-blood of others so that it could continue to live, escaping the tug of the final Music, the Music of Death. Yet that memory was locked away by dark ramparts and fortresses of evil. Yet the memory was there. It could still surface. It only needed a chance.
Silently the creature glided across the torpid waters. It sniffed the air. The Music of Life was disgustingly strong here. The Music of Evil could barely be felt. It was unprotected; the source of its power was weakened by the myriad of little animals all contributing in their way to the Life-music. But, albeit weakened, it was still a blight upon the landscape. A tool of evil.
Chapter II
Rupert Weaver opened his eyes, and in a practised motion lifted off his duvet, swung himself off the bed and into his dressing gown. The other three boys in the dorm continued to snore quietly, with Edmund murmuring something about doughnuts in his sleep.
Smiling slightly, Rupert walked over to the window. It was the beginning of another beautiful day, with the sky already beginning to turn an azure shade of blue. The last of the stars were gently fading from the sky, and yet it could not be more than five o’clock in the morning. Rupert sighed. He would never get bored of this view. The hills rolled gently away under their soft blankets of forest, finally sinking out of sight. In the distance, the mellow spire of Salisbury Cathedral could just be sighted about thirty miles away. The summer was at its peak, the glory of the world undimmed, the beauty of the Music of Life was clear for all to see. Rupert relaxed, and let his mind drift. Soon, much sooner than he had expected, he came across the soft, lilting melody of the first of the layers of Music; the Music of Beauty. It was strong, much stronger than the others, a huge band of tune stretching as far as Ruperts’ mind could see. For it was 19th of June, the Day of Azurgabith, of the Day of Dawning, when the Music of Life and the Music of Beauty were at their strongest.
Somewhere in the valley, a greenfinch was beginning its morning song. Rupert knew that he should not be up, Sandroyd was strict about bed hours, but he just loved this time of day, the transition between the velvet cloak of Night and the blue gown of Day. It was a time of Magic, and Ruperts’ finely tuned mind revelled in the easiness with which he could reach the Music.
Sandroyd School was not a school devoted to magic, in all aspects it was an ordinary preparatory school in the heart of the Cranborne Chase in Wiltshire, but several of the boys were blessed with sensitivity to at least three of the seven layers of the Music, the Music of Beauty, the Music of Life and the Music of Love. Only Rupert had access to the fourth, the Music of Peace. These few boys had an extra class after games, called Music Appreciation. The other boys believed that it was preparation for Music Scholarships, for, having such contact with the seven layers of the Music, these boys were naturally gifted at all instruments and could enchant a nightingale with their voices. But they were in fact taught about what the Music could do, and how to control it. Rupert was the most highly magical of them all, having access to so many layers of the Music. But three still eluded him: The Music of War, The Music of Purity, and finally, the Music of Death. Rupert was fairly sure he did not want to know how to sing to of these, the Fifth and the Seventh. He wished the Music of Purity came before the fifth, for he would love to be able to sing the tune of the Indigo, the Sixth, and the most beloved of all the Seven.
But some things could not be. For it is the curse of the high Musicians that they must face corruption while singing the Music of War. This they must do to reach the Music of Purity. Only the most highly skilled can do this, and it is strongly discouraged unless you are gifted indeed at the Four. Many who had tried had been subverted, and had turned into the Black Wraiths that were part of myth and legend. It was said that there wee now fully forty of them. Rupert was definitely not going to try for at least another couple of years. He may be strong, but not nearly as strong as his teacher, Mr. Jones, who was also Head of Music at Sandroyd. Only the Headmaster (and the boys he taught) knew of his magical talent.
Chapter III
The heat of the day was unbearable to the Wraith. It huddled under the shadow of a small rock, its black, ragged robes steaming slightly in the hot June sun. The Day of Azurgabith was anathema to it, yet once again in its core it knew that, long ago, it had celebrated the 19th of June every year. The memory struggled to break out of the chains binding it. Somewhere, it knew that if he could do this it would be free to return to his old life. It remembered… a sorcerer… no, it was the sorcerer… there was something about corruption… it had been corrupted…
At this point the Wraith came closer to throwing off the dark mantle the Music of War had forced upon it than it had ever done before. But the War-Music felt this and rose again in a wall of fury, blocking out the Music of Love that pushed against its consciousness, threatening to attack the Music of War, to topple it from its throne.
The Wraith twitched as the forces within him battled each other furiously. The memory was eroding its walls of protection, and the War-Music was fighting back, building newer, stronger ones to defend. The memory was fighting a losing battle. It was slowly but surely being pushed back behind the innermost rampart of his soul by the Red; the Fifth and most Evil part of the Music.
The Wraith was writhing now. Suddenly it snapped. It could not control its feelings any more. An inhuman scream rent the sultry air and the peace of the copse was abruptly shattered. A few miles away, in Shaftesbury, men and women stopped what they were doing and milled around in confusion, and a little fear. What was it? No-one seemed to know.
Back in the copse, the sound of bubbling tears echoed around. The Wraith lay on its back behind the rock, no longer caring about the pain of the sun, but just wishing the pain of the War-Music would stop. It burned through him, a red fire of pain, destroying the remnants of the memory of what the wraith had been before it had been subverted.
An hour passed, and eventually the Wraith stopped crying. The Music of War had receded back behind its walls, and the Wraith had no memory of the pain it had caused. Silently, evilly, the Wraith reached up to the Black, the Seventh, the Music of Death. He saw a rabbit feeding in the meadow grass at the rivers bank not fifty metres away. He sent the music in a ripping shriek of harsh melody at the terrified creature. Seconds later the charred rabbit was lying on the grass under the shadow of the trees.
Swiftly the Wraith eased itself out of the copse and lowered its head to the creature. In one swift movement it sucked the lifeblood out of the creature before it was even cold. The Wraith seemed to swell, growing more powerful off the rabbit’s blood, sucking up and absorbing its little store of the Music of Life. It would now be able to escape the Sevenths call to him. It could use it now without the fear off its retribution, carrying it off to the final End.
Day was beginning to lower her blue gown now, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky. It was still hot, however, and although the shadows had grown longer the Wraith was still unwilling to leave the rock. It watched, almost invisible to any eyes that would have been able to get close to it without being caught. Underneath the hood, two red sparks flashed. When night came, it would be ready.
Chapter IV
The same Sun was lowering its rays over Sandroyd, but on a far more active scene. It was the Sports Day, and the boys had just finished the last of the events, and were hurrying to grab the best of the tea before the fat teachers came and ate it all, as was their wont.
Once in the dining room, they dived for the layered trestle tables and began the hard job of eating as much food as they could in as little time as possible.
But there was one boy who did not join in the spectacle. Rupert was worried. He could feel something was wrong. There was some form of swelling in the Music. The first three were very weak and the Fourth’s melody had all but disappeared. He could feel something pushing at the edge of his consciousness, some darker music. Every now and then he could catch a snatch of some dark melody, and with it a colour. Red. He knew what it was now. For some reason, he was becoming sensitive to the fifth, the red.
The first three layers of the Music were shimmering threads, their melodies shrinking. The fourth was worst still. Something was causing this to happen, some huge imbalance in the world nearby. Someone or something must be creating that imbalance. That meant something evil was out there, and it must be of great power. Greater than his, that was definite.
He left the Dining Room, and returned back to his dorm. Once again he returned to his beloved place by the window but this time it could not please him. The view shimmered under an imaginary haze of Danger. The birds seemed to be singing a song of Death. Already he could see that the grass in the meadow outside the dorm had begun to wither. For the Music of Life and the Music of Beauty were the sustainers of these things, and they were failing, buried under the earth by the power of the Fifth.
Rupert was shocked. The rate at which the Red was growing scared him. Something out there must be immensely powerful for it to be able to create such an imbalance in little under a day.
Edmund came in, obviously looking for him. Edmund had access to the first two layers of the Music, and was skilled with these. He made it a point not to be jealous of Rupert’s magical power, as he had often said that it was best to make do with what you have and learn to do it well. He was well liked in the school, but managed to stay relatively apart from many of the boys, dedicating himself to the Music Appreciation classes, throwing himself into them with his all. There was common ground between him and Rupert that fuelled their friendship: They were Head Choristers in the choir, the played the same instruments, they were both good academically, but, most of all, they were both in love with the beauty of the Music.
“Something is wrong. You know it. I can feel my sense of the Green and the Purple fading; their melody is almost completely hushed. You have greater sensitivity than me. What is happening?”
Rupert sighed and looked at him sadly, when he spoke, his voice was melodic from use of the Music, but tinged with sorrow.
“Some evil is stirring near us. It imbalances the Music of War, making it stronger. As it gains power, the other layers fade into obscurity. If nothing is done, the whole of the country for at least twenty miles around will wither and die. Look.”
He pointed out of the window at the yellowing grass and the trees, which were losing some of their leaves.
Ordinary people would not notice this, but those followers of the layers felt every minute shift in Natures balance. The grass was not really that yellow, and there were not that many leaves on the ground, but to Rupert and Edmund it was a warning of things to come. Bad times were coming.
The two boys continued to talk for a short while, Edmund voicing his worries and fears, with Rupert countering them and replying as best he could.
Eventually they stood up. All of their combined fears had been talked about and analysed, and neither of them were quite so afraid any more. Of course, there was always Mr. Jones, one of the most powerful Musicians in the whole of the West-country.
That night Rupert lay awake in his bed for a long time. Across the dorm, he could here that Edmund was asleep from the slight snuffling noises coming from his bed. He had always made odd noises when asleep. Obviously his lessened sensitivity to The Music meant that he could still sleep without fear of dark shapes in the night. Rupert had always had an overactive imagination, but this time it was working overdrive, finally having some solid fact of evil to scare him with. He lay very still, listening for any sounds. But he heard none. The night continued on peacefully; to anyone without the sensitivity it would just be an ordinary summer’s night. But Rupert knew that there would be several boys and one teacher who would not be sleeping that night. How Edmund had managed to drift off he did not know.
What was happening? Rupert was unsure, but he knew that Sandroyd was probably the evil creatures’ destination. Because of Mr. Jones’ power, and the boys’ use of the first few layers, it would naturally want to come there.
Rupert realised.
It was coming for them.
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