Written into a Corner

Engines screaming, smoke pouring from the wing, Daxie fought the controls of his fighter. Red biplanes swarmed around him in the azure sky, the air thick with whistling death. One passed his cross hairs as his plane juddered, and with exquisite timing Daxie let out a burst of machine gun fire, watched with satisfaction as the flames spread. He was the last of his squadron, he had to make this count, for the chaps back home, for the fellas stuck in the trenches. He wrestled the nose up, scanned for more targets. Thump. Fire from behind hit his rudder, blowing it off. Daxie swore under his breath and tried to level out, perhaps to glide to a survivable landing, but he had no control now. The nose lurched downwards, the plane started to spin, slowly at first, but accelerating. The patchwork of fields and hedgerows below rushed upwards to greet him.

Cripes,” Daxie puffed. “A sticky situation and no mistake. How do I get out of this scrape?”

###

He landed hard on the sandy ground and rolled, keeping hold of his bronze shield as he used the momentum to spring to his feet. Daxos moved silently, his comrades following behind through the moonless night. The city slept, oblivious to their presence. The great wooden horse stood behind them, the ancient stone buildings of Troy loomed either side. A hand signal to his warriors, they split into two columns, keeping close to the buildings on either side so as not to cast shadows in the torchlight. Stealth was key to this mission; Daxos’ feet moved lightly over the ground, not making a sound, not lifting the fine, dry dust of the street. Ahead was the target. The gate.

At another hand signal, Daxos' men fanned out past wooden huts, sleeping workshops, stables. They would come at the gate from all angles, overcoming the guards all at once and throwing open the gates for Agamemnon's army before the Trojans could react. The square before the gates was empty, Daxos slunk into the shadows on the margins and waited. An owl call, not terribly realistic, not that it mattered. He burst out with a flash of speed, across to the gates, felling the guard before he could draw a weapon. The rest of his men converged on the gates as Daxos hefted the bar and kicked them open. Thump, thump. His men fell around him, to arrows flying from unseen sources within the buildings. He spun, crouched behind his shield as the gates revealed a wall of shields behind him. 

“Well, well, well,” called an accented voice walking up behind him, unhurried. “A wooden horse, full of soldiers, eh? You really think we would fall for that?” A whisper of bronze, then a blade rested lightly on his throat.

###

Scrape, scrape, scrape. The servant finished shaving Lord Daxington’s neck and went to fetch a warm towel. His thoughts were elsewhere. The estate expenses were mounting, revenues declining from the troublesome business in Europe, his own mother ailing and medical bills mounting. No longer was the evening’s ball a matter of pleasure. No, this had the unmistakable taint of business. He must put aside the whims of his heart, for while he yearned for Eliza he must think of the prospects of his house. He sighed. One must do one’s duty. That was the only lesson that had stuck with him through those chilly mornings in the oppressive classroom, the flying chalk, the crack of the cruel tyrant's cane. No, he would do his level best to charm Lady Catherine. For that he would need to look his best, to hide the financial pressures that squeezed him daily, to let fly his ready wit and dance with poise and grace.

“My Lady,” he purred, with a graceful bow as he took Lady Catherine’s hand. “Might I say you bring the refreshment of a cool zephyr to this warm summer's eve?” His heart wrenched as he saw the dashing Captain Whitmore take Eliza by the hand, whisper a joke in her ear that made her giggle, a tinkling of silver bells. Lady Catherine smiled, with a ripple that sailed across both her chins. The band struck up a waltz, and he steered her through the whirling couples in the sumptuous ballroom of the Earl of Derbyshire. His deft feet flicked around her missteps with soundless grace, his movements elegant. Her eyes followed his with the softness of spring blossom, his hands held her delicately yet guided her firmly. As the band played the final note, she smiled coquettishly at him.

“Why, Lord Daxington, I had no idea you had such command of another's body! We must do this again some time!”

He bowed decorously, to a strange zipping noise. What was that? Lady Catherine’s gaze had dropped lower, perhaps a little too forthright, but he would work with what he had. A ripple of laughter. Lord Daxington looked down. Oh no. His perfectly pressed but well-worn trousers had failed him at this critical juncture. A terrible tear propagated from front to back. The dancefloor erupted into riotous laughter. Lord Daxington stood, consumed by embarrassment, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him.

###

The icy crust gave way below Dacksley, plunging him into a jagged ravine. He clawed at the gritty ice walls, scrabbled desperately to stop himself plunging into the frozen depths. With a thump, his crampons hit a ledge, he dug in with all his strength, fought his fall to a halt. Above him, the sharp ice grains of the storm whistled past. He could stay here, just for a moment, sleep some life into his exhausted muscles… No. There was not time. He was so close, and he had to find the secret. Something told him this secret mattered more than his life, that he would need to be prepared to risk all to learn it. This, he told himself, not his ungovernable pride, was why he left the Sherpas at base camp and struck out, alone. He still had his ice axe. Putting his frustration, his rage, into each swing, he hacked and kicked handholds and footholds into the sheer walls, until the bite of the high mountain winds assaulted his face once more.

Hauling himself over another ice-coated rock, the rushing clouds parted, just for an instant, to show him his goal. The Monastery. The Secret. Perched on the precipice, fingers of gold pointing heavenwards. His fingers burned with cold. His toes, more worryingly, had stopped hurting. On he struggled, up to the great gates, ornate with delicate carvings, and hammered his fists, pleaded to be let in, tears freezing on his cheeks.

“We do not have long,” the serious monk recited to him, inside the temple, to the soft tinkle of chimes and the crackle of smoky lamps. “Soon he will realise.”

“What?” puffed Dacksley, irritated by the monk’s cryptic clues. “Who? What can you possibly mean?”

“The One Who Writes,” continued the monk, as if reading a prayer. “He continues to reincarnate you, to trap you within this cycle of suffering.” The monk leaned closer, played nervously with his robes, whispering now. “Have you noticed in your adventures, you defy death until there comes a point where all seems impossible to survive? That's when He has written you into a corner. He has no idea how to progress, He gives up and starts again. Mind like a rabbit warren, no focus! So your suffering goes on endlessly.” A rumble outside. “You must try to remember!” The monastery shook, bricks falling.

“You must break the cycle!” were the last words the monk shouted, as they fell into the abyss. This time, Dacksley could feel the eraser, rough, scraping against his skin.

###

Dax stepped out of the great tear in the rock, out into the breathless cold, hunters padding behind. There was their quarry, tusks brushing the snow aside for scraps of grass. They would need cunning and stealth. He issued no command, they all knew deep in their bones. The drifts glinted in the bright sun, which warmed his chilled leathery skin. The group stalked, moving quietly, splitting up to form a circle around the great beast, which continued to snuffle, oblivious to the movement of the tiny creatures. They would eat well today. Reaching the furthest point, Dax looked left and then right. They were all ready, waiting for him to make the first move. But not this time. He remembered, fuzzily as if from a dream, that he wouldn't run towards danger this time. It was important. He crouched, then dropped his spear, turned on his heels, and sprinted away from the hunt, scattering clouds of snow dust into the still air. Confused shouts issued behind him as he crunched through the icy crust, the snow beneath dragging him back. Shouts turned to screams, to snarls of a pack of sabretooth tigers, apparently popping out of nowhere. The mammoth trumpeted angrily. The sounds vanished into the distance. No stopping now. Dax pushed his protesting legs harder, harder. The horizon finished ahead of him. A swish of snow and fur came from behind him; the tiger must be in pursuit. The world fell away ahead of him. Hot breath on his ears. He reached the edge, jumped and tucked his feet. The white world fell away, the edge of the notepad. He was free. Free to exact his revenge.

###

Dax looked around in the half-light of dusk. He still had a Hunter's body. Good. Exactly what he needed for this last task. He would hunt the One Who Writes, he would erase him. Half-light was perfect too, better for predators, worse for prey. Keeping low, he stalked the house. All quiet, the soft glow of a lamp. There was his target, in the corner, unsuspecting. Dax checked his weapons. All there, ready and sharp. This would be quick and vicious. He pounced.

###

“Agh, dammit, Dax! Look what he's done, jumped on my laptop, now my novel’s all been replaced by X's and semicolons and somehow it's autosaved over! Ugh, and I’d just worked out the perfect ending for that climactic scene! You're an awful cat!”

Dax gave The One Who Writes – his inferior in every way – a contemptuous Look, swished his tail arrogantly, and smugly padded out of the room.