1.1 - The Little Boy

'...our land, our country. We won't go into the night like slaves - no - we will fight our enemies like warriors! When they look back on today they will remember us; the few who died to save the lives of many.'

The Captain drew himself up before his loyal troops as he finished speaking. It had been a good speech, a glorious call to arms, rousing the rabble from their sadness and preparing them for the last big push. It was make or break time. The brave Captain surveyed the scene before him and slowly raised his right fist.

'Onwards men!' he shouted, punching the air in time with the words. 'On to VICTORY!'

Holding his arms outstretched, the little boy leapt off the old tree stump with a whoop and took off, now the world-renowned Fighter Ace; Red Leader, sprinting furiously around the small garden as fast as his legs would carry him. Charging through the apple trees, he swooped and climbed, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with a tree here, making a daring sideways dive over the pond there, and causing little flashes of gold to disappear into the pondweed.

'Red Leader to Red Five! Cover me! Bogies on your six!' he called, excitedly commanding his wingmen to follow and laughing with delight at the tiny people far, far below, like ants in a model village. Thomas, the fat tabby cat, barely escaped when the little boy descended upon him, guns blazing. He chased the cat, who retreated to a safe distance in the bushes with barely a backward glance, resuming his washing with a wary, suspicious eye on the hyperactive child. The boy laughed and taunted the animal. He never got tired of this game, no matter how disdainful the cat tried to be.

'Come on lads! Let's bag us a Big Cat!' The little boy pulled on his Big Boots and wedged The Exploring Hat onto his tousled light blonde hair. He ventured cautiously into the thorny hedgerow hunting for Monsters with only his trusty pocket knife for protection.

'Steady boys, steady,' he whispered, freezing and making a complicated gesture with his raised hand. There was a rustling in the bushes and a streak of orange-brown fur. He had been too slow, Thomas had spotted him well in advance and now sat well out of reach in the old cherry tree, staring back at the Great Adventurer with an air of detached interest. The little boy grinned up at him and scratched his head.

Moments later the Dreaded Pirate Blackbeard scuppered a hundred wealthy merchant ships, saving a grateful maiden or two on the way and showing a little mercy to his enemies, but not so much that he risked losing the respect of his men. The dreaded pirate cheerfully persuaded Thomas to come down from the tree once the world was safe again and they had both been called inside for supper.

In the house nearby, net curtains twitched and shuddered.

A powerful wave of nervous energy suddenly overcame the boy and he turned quickly, eyes wide and questioning, but saw nothing. The movement in the curtains was not unusual - he knew the old man often watched him playing - but the sensation of being watched was not normally so negative and overpowering as this. It felt different, more oppressive, like a thick blanket of darkness beginning to smother him. He called it 'The Shadow', an ever-present sense of impending doom he had known for as long as he could remember. As long as he kept playing make-believe, the Shadow remained on the edges, but in recent days the behaviour of the other people in the village had changed towards him and the little boy was beginning to suspect that they had noticed it too. As a result his play had become more intense, more desperately carefree.

While running errands for his mother, it was becoming increasing difficult to ignore the whispers that followed him; Oh the poor thing, what with his daddy gone and his mother struggling so... Yes - the Shadow was getting stronger, but only he saw it as a physical entity, a clawing darkness threatening to smother his very soul. The others reacted as if they saw something rotten in him, making him feel like a disease carrier, a devil child. He noted the fear in their eyes, the involuntary shudder, the way they clutched their own children close, shielding them from him as if he would kill them with a glance. He saw emotions laid bare on bitter faces, etching themselves on his mind's eye for night-time awakenings.

He was no longer allowed to play with any of the other children. Even at school they had begun to give him a wide birth, so on he played, his imagination keeping him free when the world was trying to imprison him.

Yes, his fancies are all well and good, but where does it lead, I ask you? The words haunted him daily. It was not his fault that The Shadow was here, but it was definitely here for him. He did not understand the hypocrisy of the adults, how they could make great claims to care about truth and honesty, pitying him one moment and avoiding him the next.

The old man knew about truth.

Even a truth observed from behind dusty net curtains by a grumpy old man who lived next door, a man who had not been allowed to do anything at all when he was a little boy. A man for whom 'Truth' was beyond imagining, but his help would come too late.

When the Truth came to visit this little boy there was nothing anybody could do to save him.