The Dragon in the Theatre - Ch 2 / 3

2

The Secret Room



Elliott reached into his knapsack. One of his father’s lessons was to always be ready for whatever might happen. Elliott was glad he had listened and picked up a lightstick before he left his dormroom for the evening. Elliott pulled it out of his trouser pocket. ‘You never know when you might come across trouble,’ Father had said and now Elliott was glad he had listened. Elliott turned the end of the stick and a tight beam of light shone out. The yellow light broke the darkness just enough to show him that the room he had walked into was in fact much larger than the room he had just left. Elliott moved the beam around to get a better view. It seemed impossible to him that the single doorway led to the room he was now standing in. He could not quite believe what he was seeing. It was difficult in the darkness to really gauge the size of the room. Elliott scanned the room again with the lightstick to get a true sense of its size, and this only confirmed to him that something very unusual was happening. His knowledge of the Theatre told him that this room could not possibly exist; yet he was standing here in it. He looked around in all the details the light revealed. He looked for something that would turn on the lights. Behind him he saw a switch on the wall besides the door he had just come though. He reached over and pressed down on the switch. It resisted at first as if stuck, but he pushed down hard with his thumb and it clicked into place.

The power came on and the room filled with artificial light. The bulb was failing though and it flickered in one corner, giving that area of the room an unsettled air which Elliott found unnerving. Elliott could hear a low humming noise coming from the bulb and he really did not like it. He concentrated hard to block it out, building a barrier in his mind. He concentrated for a few moments and he felt the noise go away. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. It was clearly not a storage cupboard as he had assumed before he entered it. The walls appeared to be curved, giving the room the feeling that it formed a not quite circle, just wider at its centre than it should have been.

The centrepiece of the room was a spiral staircase that led downwards, with a sculpted metal banister circling the top of the stairs. It was cast of wrought iron, twisted swirling black bars leading to the floor. It was totally out of character with everything else that appeared in the Theatre, like something from one of the northern territory ships that Elliott had seen in port where everything was cast in dark metal. It did not fit the character of the rest of the Theatre.  He turned and looked around him almost giddy with excitement. All round the room there was bookcases filed with books, but also small sculptures and boxes, stacked item upon item, coated several layers of dust. Where there were a few gaps not covered in shelves ornate paintings hung.

Elliott could tell that no one had been in this room for many years. He wondered even if his Grandfather had ever been in this room. It did not look as if anything had ever been touched. The bookcases were at least twice Elliott’s height and now that he looked at them carefully he saw they appeared to be highly organised. Someone had spent time in this room arranging the contents of the shelves to be neat and efficient, and this also did not remind him of his memories of Grandfather. The spines of the books were arranged by height, tallest at one end to shortest. Where there were numbers on the spines these were always in the correct order.  It felt to him more like his own bedroom, where he had spent time carefully putting everything in its place and making sure every object was in sequence. Everything as covered in dust, untouched by hand, but it had obviously been left this way. 

Elliott looked at the nearest shelf, spent a few seconds scanning the markings on the side, and then randomly picked a large box from it. He placed it down on the floor, surprised at how light it was. He had expected it to be far heavier given its size. He carefully opened the box and found it contained far more objects than he would have expected from its weight. The first item was a wig of red hair. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before outside the Theatre. He started to empty the contents of the box and lay it out on the floor in front of him. Everything raised questions, articles of clothing taken from another time, from history, Masks that would give a man the appearance of an animal. Elliott was fascinated, picking up item after item trying to understand where it had all come from. He found it impossible to believe that he had never been in this room before, or that Grandfather had never told him about it. Elliott wondered if it was his own memory at fault? Nothing had surprised him in the Theatre yet except this room, and the door that led to the room before it. He looked over to the next bookshelf and saw that it was not filled with books or boxes but something else altogether.

And it amazed him.

There were numerous weapons stacked on top of one another. He recognised them as weapons because these were things that were carried by Mr Poyle's security force, and the Warrant agents.  Swords of different lengths sat on the shelf, from swords the length of his arm to ones that would be as tall as his full height if stood on their tip. Daggers with jewelled blades, a longbow, even a hammer with a carved wooden handle.  As with everything else a film of dust covered them, telling Elliott that they had lain untouched for years. Elliott was fascinated, and he wanted to pick up one of the swords to see how it felt. He was concerned though that he would not be able to lift it.  He reached his hand out and grasped the handle feeling the cold metal as he did so. He let his fingers mould into the curves of the swords handle. When he went to lift it he had a surprise. He found it weighed of nothing. It was one of the shorter swords, Elliott did not want to be too ambitious on his first try and he held it upright before him. He copied the posture he has seen a security agent adopt once on the main street apprehending a criminal. Elliott ran his finger across the tip of the blade. It was blunt. He could lift the sword easily and as he did so felt a strange reassurance, almost as if he was already familiar and comfortable holding it. He had never touched a sword before in his life. He had been told tales of warriors from other lands that used them as weapons. But in that moment he knew that holding a real sword like this was something that was not strange, yet he had no idea why. He gripped the handle firm and swung the blade. It was easy as it was only made of something soft, he did not know what, but somehow he knew what to do with it. Holding this sword felt like a memory. A memory that was distant, but still part of him. It was just a fragment buried deep within but it was stirring nonetheless. He stood there for a few seconds and allowed it the opportunity to come to the surface, but it seemed reluctant. He looked at the handle and saw what looked like a name, but it was not a name he had heard before, or even a language he knew. Elliott wondered if he could have used this sword on the agent of the warrant if it had been real. He had decided that this was in fact not a real sword; it must be what Grandfather had called a prop. That was why it was so easy to pick up and blunt. He wondered again what he could do if it was real. Could he use it in anger? Could he kill?  Did he have it within himself to do such a thing? He did not wish to find out, even though this was only a fake, and placed the sword back on the shelf. He felt a shudder through his back as if the temperature had momentarily dropped and he had felt the cold inside him.

The third shelf was covered in books, hundreds of them, stacked randomly on top of one another. The organisation bothered him. There were Books with spines of a thousand different colours and types. Crimson and navy and magenta, and next to one another with titles lettered in gold and silver and black. Elliott had never seen books with names such as these before. The City library and the school and his home all contained books. But he had been taught at the Academy that books were for information, for facts and lists and for purpose. He had always loved reading and books of any kind but this was something different, something new. He knew immediately that these books were not like the books in the rest of the city. Elliott picked up one book that was coated in dust, blew it away, and opened it to the first page. He had never seen a book that was written as this was either. The books title was ‘The fall of the Kingdom’.  The book was written not as an explanation but as a list of spoken words annotated with the name of a character. Everything appeared to be spoken word, not description. He turned to the start of the book, and upon reading the opening pages realised that this was not a book that was to be just read, it was a book that was to be spoken. He had heard Grandfather speak about such things many times. For just a moment he felt anger towards his Grandfather.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this place?’

This room was a haven to him, like someone had created the perfect place, so he could not believe that Grandfather never told him this room was here? He felt let down, as if his expectations of the Theatre had not been met. And yet this room was everything he had ever dreamed of. Something was missing though. He knew instinctively that he did not have the full picture yet. There had to be more than he could see with his eyes. He truly believed Grandfather would not have kept this secret without good reason. 

Elliott again emptied the contents of the shelves onto the carpet. He started to arrange the books first by size then by colour. He then picked a stack in front of him and began to look through the first book. He looked through the stack at the different titles. Some were a single word, which Elliott presumed to be the name of the title character from the images on the front covers even though the names were not names that he knew of. He took each book, looked at the cover, then read the back cover, and opened the first page and started to glance through. He carried on through the whole stack. Many appeared to tell historical stories of conflict. Some of the books appeared to be stories of joy, and as many again of sorrow or sadness. Elliott could tell what they were from the illustrations on the covers. None of the books in Prosperity’s Library or his school had such things. By the time he had looked at half a dozen of the books he realised that the stories in the books he was holding in his hands were the stories Grandfather had started to tell him when he was younger. Now seeing these books his memories of those stories started to return. He did not remember this room, but he did remember the stories, despite the fact that he had not heard them for many years. He had spent some time looking through the books when he realised he had almost become lost in them. It was then that he remembered the staircase.

He walked over to the railing in the centre of the room.  It was a spiral staircase, but he had expected to see the stairs lead to a lobby below and yet it did not. He shone the lightstick down and the light started to fade long before the spiral staircase ended. The darkness was somehow blacker than the coldest winter night, the deepest well. He feared there was something unnatural about it. On top of that he thought that there should have been another part of the Theatre directly below them. He looked back around the room trying to decide what he should do next. He could feel a current of air rising from the spiral staircase and It smelt slightly damp, like a spring day, not altogether unpleasant. The air around him in the circular room did not smell like that at all. In fact it seemed to change the further away from the staircase he walked. He stepped back from the opening to test his idea, and found he was correct.

‘Is there anyone down there?’ he called out, expecting no response. 

Whilst the darkness appeared to be unnatural, something down there was calling him with its scent that was so pleasant. The smell of the Theatre was one thing, so familiar, but this was enticing, almost begging, like the sweetest of delicacies had all been laid out in a single place. Elliott pointed the stick at the wall. Where he was standing the walls were painted a glorious bold magenta that whilst faded had clearly been painted by man. He wondered again where this room had come from and how it had come to be here. A man made room that somehow led deep down in the ground. Elliott decided that the invitation was too good to resist.

He took a first step down the spiral staircase.

The first steps were wooden, made from the same floorboards as the Theatre. But unlike the Theatre this wood appeared to be brand new, as if it had just been crafted the day before whilst the wood of the theatre betrayed its neglect.  But he noticed after a dozen or so steps that the texture beneath his feet had started to change. The walls too were decorated in the same fashion same as the room upstairs, but as he walked down the staircase he noticed a number of subtle differences. The carving in the wooden banister became more exquisite, smoother to the touch. Elliott held the banister as he walked down the stairs.

Then everything started to change.

The staircase that was made of wood with plaster and brick walls merged with one carved from the rock and stone. The transition was hidden in shadows and Elliott himself barely spotted it.  The light from the room above had run out just at the point wood turned to stone.  He reached out and touched the walls. They were ever so slightly damp, as if filtering rainwater seeping into the earth. It was not a random texture of rock. The walls were smooth and they felt as though they had been carved by hand then polished. Elliott stepped back carefully, for the steps were actually quite narrow. He pointed his light at the wall again. He could make out what seemed to be carvings of characters sculpted into the rock. The detail astounded Elliott. He had never seen such beautiful and exquisite detail, even in the darkness. He followed these carvings along the wall and saw that they were in fact the same characters repeated over and over again. They showed a number of scenes one after another. He realised the carvings were not random. There was a story carved into the wall.

Elliott found it difficult to follow exactly what the story was, as he often found such things difficult. In classes he was often being told how slow he was at understanding things. He often did understand, he just needed a little more time than others to focus his mind on absorbing all the details. One thing however he was not lacking in was memory. He wondered if these carvings were based on one of the stories his Grandfather had told him.

‘If the books upstairs were Grandfathers stories, why couldn’t these be those stories as well?’ he said out loud. He became acutely aware that he was talking to himself, and felt the need to shake himself as if embarrassed by the fact.

Elliott saw that there were markings beneath the individual scenes and focused his gaze on them. He found it difficult, as the markings seemed to move as he looked at them. He rubbed his eyes as he did when this happened in class, angry that what he experienced never seemed to happen to anyone else, another reminder that he was different. He saw that the markings contained repetitive characters. A different language perhaps, he thought. One in particular stood out, a circle with a line underneath it. He looked at one carving then another, and another. It appeared in almost every image. There were other symbols too, and now that he had seen them they stood out and this enabled him to concentrate on them.  Elliott surmised that this made them a language, but of course he realised he did not know what the language meant.  He looked again at the scenes and in particular the images that were carved into the stone. The detail was so beautiful he could scarcely imagine how someone had carved it. He rubbed his finger along the edge of the image and felt his skin tear, it was so fine.

He could pick out a number of different faces from the sculpted characters. One particular character seemed to stand tall above the others for Elliott. Elliott imagined he was a great warrior, based on his posture and the shield and spear he carried. He stood at the head of a great army, twice as tall in the carving as any of the men who stood behind him. Elliot stopped at one particular image. It jumped out at him. The hero stood on one side of the image and faced a creature of incredible size. It had multiple limbs reaching out from its body towards the hero, Limbs that were contorted and twisted and reached in all different directions each like a single snake. Then he saw that the next set of sculptures continued the same story. The man, the warrior was now stood on top of the creature thrusting his spear down through its centre, piercing its heart. One of the Creatures limbs was wrapped around the warrior, gripping his chest tight. It was then that Elliott remembered the story these images were portraying, the story of the Masterful Dark.

It was a story Grandfather had told him long ago, a story that he had found terrifying at the time. It would now be one of his favourites if stories were allowed in Prosperity. He sat back on one of the steps and held up the lightstick then peered in close to look at the carvings. He had always seen the story in his own mind, but now these pictures were here to remind him and fill in the details that he could not remember. He began to form the words of his Grandfather in his mind. It started to return, little by little, but he could hear Grandfathers voice. The Masterful Dark was a creature of Matter. Grandfather had always talked about matter when Elliott was small but he had never explained what it was. The creature consumed anything in its path, absorbing living thing and object into its gaping mouth until there was nothing left. Elliott had always had a picture of the creature in his mind, but it was nowhere near as terrifying as the one he could now see before him. He had always thought of the creature as being a four-legged carnivore, similar to the wild beasts that lived beyond the mountain ranges. They were his only frame of reference, as Grandfather had never had anything to describe, so Elliott’s imagination had created an image for him. Now however he saw that nothing could have prepared him for the physical manifestation of the dark. It had the attributes of dozens of beasts, a gaping jaw, tentacles and tendrils, each with a mouth of its own that seemed to be seeking out its own prey. The beast moved across the face of the planet, attacking village after village in ancient times. He remembered that Grandfather had told him that It could feel nothing and so could not be reasoned with. It had no capacity for love only an insatiable hunger for other life forms to replace the void at its own core.

Elliott heard the story in the words his Grandfathers had spoken so many years before as they replayed in his head. If he closed his eyes he could even see Grandfather speaking.

After many years the dark arrived at the village of a brave and noble man named only Coreil. He had heard of the creature known as the Masterful Dark and had refused to accept the destruction of the village at its hands. He volunteered himself to it as a challenge. It could attempt to consume him and if it succeeded the creature could continue. He warned the creature that he would resist it with every once of his being. Elliott remembered that Grandfather had once told him that the creature was intelligent but it was not clever. Elliott had asked him what he had meant, and Grandfathers answer had been that the creature had no imagination. Whilst it could solve problems and was able to make decisions, it had no ability to truly think. Elliott remembered that at the time he did not understand. The creature accepted Coreil's offer and Coreil stood firm with the other villagers behind him. He fought the creature for seven days and seven nights until they were both exhausted. The Masterful Dark became more and more frustrated and anger, which led it to try more and more desperate measures to beat the man. Grandfather had told Elliott them that it could not imagine what could be more powerful then it. Coreil stood fast and realising that it could not beat the man’s will, the creature retreated never to be seen again. It simply gave in. Once it left Coreil collapsed exhausted.

He was taken back into the village and every effort was made to save him. Coreil himself however was not concerned. He told his village they did not need to be mournful because he had seen the essence of his life and it was good, and that it would continue to be so after his death. None of the village quite understood what he meant though, and this was something that Grandfather had promised to explain but never did. Coreil was declared a hero and the town rejoiced, but he died shortly afterwards. The village remembered him with a statue in the centre of the village. The people of the town paid tribute to him every year for a long time, until the events of those days had passed out of living memory.

Elliott remembered how often Grandfather had told him that story. He was amazed he had remembered it, but the rock carvings had helped bring it back. He wanted to know what this place was and why it was here. He wanted to know everything and more. The desire burned like a fire inside his mind. However Elliott knew though that he had to turn round. He had no idea how long he had been gone.  He looked back up the staircase and as he did so felt a gush of wind over his back, as if something had just swooped down on him from the top of the staircase. He walked around to see if something had indeed flown down to the room full of doors, but he saw nothing. Somewhere far in the distance though he thought he could hear a low roar. He stopped, trying to focus on it, but it was gone almost as soon as he had heard it.   

Elliott ran back up the staircase and through the room of books and swords and out of the open door into the main theatre. He thought that he could make it back without the Agent finding him.

As he came bursting through the door he ran straight into the waiting clutches of the black suited man. He screamed and tried to fight him off but he was stronger than Elliott had imagined. The man’s arm reached around Elliott’s torso and lifted him up.

‘And the Agent of the Warrant catches the young thief yet again.’

The Black suited man removed his hat whilst maintaining one arms grip around Elliott.

‘Not so scary am I now? This hat always makes me look evil doesn’t it? It belonged to an old pirate friend of mine named…’

‘Who are you?’ Elliott screamed, pushing against the man. But the Agent released Elliott, much to his surprise. Elliott fell to the floor.

‘Now now boy don’t ruin the story before I get going after all I was just starting and there you go and ruin my opening line. You really need to learn better timing Elliott.’

‘You know who I am?’ Elliott did not understand.

‘Elliott, have you forgotten me?’ the man asked, his expression mixture of sadness and shock. He reached out his hand and helped the boy to his feet.

He looked at the old mans face for the first time and realised who he was.

‘We used to play this all the time. You have forgotten haven’t you?’

The man was right. They had used to play this all the time, but Elliott had forgotten. The man holding him was his Grandfather. This old man, who had scared him but had been the best thing in his life, stood and looked at him and smiled.

‘Now come on. I’ve already called your father.’



































3

Things remembered



He looked just as Elliott had remembered him, now that the boy was looking at the old man’s face. Elliott had been a small child the last time he had seen his Grandfather, but he had fought to keep his memories fresh in his mind. He had remembered him over and over again in his mind, keeping his memories alive by watching them over and over again in his dreams. He compared those memories to the reality before him. He could not help but notice Grandfather’s eyebrows, which were grandly white, as if they belonged to some arch Duke from a history book, similar to his memory but of course different because of the years that had passed. His eyes though were still the deep blue that Elliott remembered. Then Elliott started to notice more, other things that had changed. Grandfather walked slowly, much slower than Elliott remembered, as if he no longer had enough energy to keep moving forward. Elliott noticed he was wearing the same long, high collared coat that he had owned when Elliott was a child. Elliott remembered that vividly. It too showed signs of age, the elbows worn and the stitching loose at the cuffs. It had not aged well.

‘It will take him a while to get here; He made me promise to keep you here until he arrived. I should thank you really, that was the first time we have spoken in years.’ The old man said as he stepped back from the boy. Elliott looked up at his Grandfather. He could hear the sadness in his Grandfathers voice.

‘What did happen between you? I remember I used to come here everyday and then one day I stopped,’ he asked.

Grandfather paused. Elliott could see that he was thinking over his response carefully.

‘I think we shouldn’t talk about that. I’m sorry. Before I talk to you I need to talk to your father. Do you understand?’ There was a silence for a moment but it was not uncomfortable. It was as if neither of them fully understood what they were supposed to do.

‘That’s okay; I don’t really need to know.’ Elliott replied, breaking the silence.

Grandfather smiled, and realised it was going too possible to move on.

‘So, how did you find your way here tonight then?’ Grandfather asked.

Elliott went to open his mouth, but he too had things that he was not yet ready to talk about. Grandfather could tell this as well.

‘So we both have secrets then. Well then let’s not worry about any of that now. Come and have a cup of tea and tell me what you’ve been up to.’

Grandfather led Elliott into the lobby. He had turned on all the lights so that the Theatre looked very different to Elliott compared to the way it had done earlier in the evening.  Elliott looked around and thought to himself that even with light the Theatre looked as though it had been abandoned. Everywhere he looked Elliott could see Spider webs. Grandfather pointed at a small set of table and chairs that sat over in the back corner of the room and Elliott dutifully went and sat down.

‘I’ll get us that tea while we wait for your Father. You do drink tea don’t you? I’m afraid that’s all I have here.’ He pottered around with the ingredients as he spoke, taking jars of his cupboards.

‘Yes I like tea, thank you,’ Elliott replied.

‘Good to see you haven’t lost your manners. You always were a polite boy,’ The Kitchen was a small room with a serving hatch at the rear of the lobby. The Room had everything he needed. It had once served the patrons of the Theatre but now had only two customers. ‘How long has it been, I actually cannot remember?’ Grandfather pottered in the kitchen area with two cups whilst he waited for a kettle to boil.

‘I haven’t seen you since I was seven. I’ll be thirteen soon.’

Grandfather’s head swung up and looked at Elliott suddenly. ‘Thirteen?’ he asked, ‘When?’ He listened intently for the answer. Elliott could see this was important to him. He stood tense and unflinching as if nothing was going to move him until he had his answer.

‘Next week,’ Elliott replied. He was sitting on the seat backwards his arms resting on the chair back, watching his Grandfather. ‘I have my assessment at the Academy this week. My Father says it’s very important.’ The old man relaxed, seemingly satisfied.

The Kettle began to whistle so Grandfather took it off the boil.

‘It is to him, and it is if you wish to live in this town, boy.’ Elliott heard resentment in Grandfathers voice at the word town. Grandfather poured hot steaming water from the kettle into the cups, one after another. ‘Thirteen, eh?’ Something about the way Grandfather spoke was bothering Elliott, as if he knew something that he was not saying out loud. ‘Tell me lad, what colour are your eyes?’ Grandfather did not look at Elliott as he asked the question. Elliott thought it an unusual question and began to wonder whether or not he could really trust Grandfather. After all he had no idea why his father had stopped bringing him to visit. Was there some genuine reason that meant his father had cause to keep him away?

‘They’re green,’ he replied. Elliott wondered if Grandfather knew anything about what had happened to him earlier that evening. The first thing Pollux had said was about Elliott’s eyes. Was that why Grandfather was asking he wondered? ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Your father has grey eyes, I was curious to see if you took after him or your mother.’ 

Elliott was not quite sure he believed the answer. It came too fast, and Elliott felt it was too much of a co-incidence. He wondered if he should tell Grandfather about what had happened earlier that evening or not.

Grandfather walked back over with the two cups. ‘I know what you’re thinking. This place is a mess isn’t it? Well let me tell you, it puts off anyone wanting to break in. They don’t see anything worth stealing so they leave me alone and that’s important to me. I like to feel safe, alone here.’

‘I can understand that,’ Elliott sipped his tea, as Grandfather took a seat next to him. He sighed as he sat releasing the tension from his joints. ‘How are you Granddad, I missed you.’ Elliott himself was surprised by the emotion that was coming from him already. He hadn’t been quite comfortable until this moment, but now sitting here drinking tea he felt safe once more. The doubt’s he had had a few moments ago had vanished. Elliott wanted to know more about what had happened to him, but he felt nervous about saying it directly. He thought it better to talk about their pass.

‘Granddad do you remember the stories you used to tell me?’

‘Which ones, there were many?’

Elliott hesitated, he was not sure if he wanted to talk about the room just yet, but he wanted to know more about the story of Coreil.

‘I can remember a story about a man named Coreil.’

Grandfather burst with laughter, but it struck Elliot that the laugh was not one of amusement but satisfaction, as if somehow this was the answer he had expected. ‘That one, well yes… You demanded I tell you that story all the time. Every day for three months if I remember rightly. I’m not surprised you remember it.’

‘Well I don’t remember all of it. ’

‘Well then let me help remind you. Coreil was a warrior who protected a town. One day a creature arrived, and the great hero fought and killed the beast.’ Grandfather had jumped to his feet. He acted out the movements of a man fighting with a sword. ‘Coreil fought the creature like this,’ and he thrust his imaginary sword forwards as if stabbing an imaginary monster, ‘do you remember playing this with me?’ And he looked at Elliott and Elliott did indeed remember playing at sword fighting. Grandfather stood there motionless and silent. He looked at the boy carefully.

‘What do you remember about Coreil, Elliott?’

‘I can hear your voice, I think, well a voice, telling me the story. At least I think that’s what it is. Granddad it’s strange, it’s as if I can see the story through Coreil’s eyes.’

Grandfather was smiling broadly at his grandson. Elliott looked back at him, and he could feel how proud his Grandfather was. Then suddenly Grandfather clapped his hands together and rubbed them hard.

‘Come on enough of these stories, come and see some more of the Theatre.’

‘But I want to hear more,’ Elliott protested.

‘Not now, not now, come your Father will be here soon and frankly I want to show you this place before you go.’ Elliott could sense that Grandfather was trying to avoid the subject of the stories. He would not make eye contact with him and every time Elliott stopped moving, Grandfather started again forcing the boy to catch up. Before Elliott knew it Grandfather had marched up the steps and over to the double doors that led into the auditorium and had swung the doors open. Elliott ran up behind him, trying to catch up amazed at the speed that the man who had had to lower himself into his chair could now move at. Grandfather continued talking all the way, but Elliot did not hear more than a few words. He was talking about the Theatre and its history, but it did not make sense to Elliott. He did pick out a few words that did not seem to make sense though. Grandfather talked about something called a monologue and his favourite passage from a particular show, but Elliott had not heard of it before, and could not keep pace with him to ask questions. Grandfather had reached the walkway at the rear of the auditorium when he turned around, surprised that the boy was not beside him.

‘Come on lad no time to lose, no time to lose. Time is running short. Thirteen you say and green eyes. Tell me have you ever acted before?’ Grandfather set of again.

Elliott could not keep up; the man’s energy was incredible. He was bouncing along the balcony with all the energy of a man a quarter his age. Elliott tried to keep up.

‘No, we aren’t allowed to do such things in the Academy.’

‘That is a shame, it’s a wonderful profession you know, actually no it’s a crime. That fool Poyle,’ he stopped and looked down at the stage, ‘Tell me what do you see?’ Grandfather pointed down at the stage that Elliott had himself run around just a few hours ago. He wondered to himself what Grandfather knew, was he being tested? He held back the truth, because right now he could not see anything, just a stage, where he had previously seen another world. Grandfather seemed to know more than he was saying, and it made Elliot slightly suspicious.

‘I can see the stage.’

‘Anything else?’

Elliott waited a second, he could not tell Grandfather what he had seen, because he could not be sure he had seen it. Even if he had seen something, it wasn’t there now, so he decided to say nothing. Grandfather though clearly knew something more about the stage. The doubt Elliott had felt began to creep back. Elliott wanted desperately wanted to know if Grandfather could tell him more about the room he had found. He wondered how he could do this without telling him the whole truth.

‘Granddad, can we go back to where you caught me?’ he asked.

Grandfather looked down at him and smiled. ‘Of course we can.’

They walked in up to the first floor via a staircase, passing a pair of posters of ‘Vlad the Magnificent’ that hung framed on the wall. The walked round the auditorium to the place where Elliott had found the door leading to the Library room. However when they arrived Elliott was surprised to discover that what he had expected to find was not there. He was now glad he had not said anything to Grandfather. He could not imagine what had happened. He did not believe he had imagined the whole thing; it was too real for that to be true. He looked around for some evidence of the door, but there was nothing. It was as if the door never existed.

‘What are you looking for?’ Grandfather asked him, peering round. But Grandfathers tone told Elliott that he knew the boy was looking for something, something that he had not found.

But Elliott could not tell him. He could no longer believe it was real, and he did not want to appear foolish. ‘Nothing,’ he lied. Grandfather noticed that his grandson could not seem to look at him, ‘I just remembered something here from long ago.’ It was a half-truth at best.

‘Would you please tell me more about the Theatre? Why won’t you leave?’ Elliott asked desperate to change the subject.

Grandfather frowned. ‘I’ll tell you all about the Theatre. Come on let’s get back down to the lobby.’ Elliott could see that his Grandfather was guarded and was not going to talk about certain things. As they walked Grandfather talked about al the features of the Theatre, and Elliott listened carefully enjoying the voice that sounded only slightly different to the one he remembered as a child.

They walked back through the double doors into the lobby and Elliott could see his father standing outside looking in. He remembered his real life and it suddenly felt so mundane when compared to the one he had had for a short time so many years ago when he came to this place every day. He realised how much he hated school and being away from his father, and just wanted to stay with both of them.

‘I cannot tell,’ Elliott asked Grandfather, ‘is he angry?’

‘Does he have a reason to be?’ Grandfather responded with an eyebrow raised.

Elliott did not answer but realised that what he had come to the Theatre for had been achieved. He had found his Grandfather alive and well. But now feared he would be taken away, never to see him again. Elliott did not make eye contact with his father outside as he and his Grandfather continued walking into the lobby. Elliott knew that his Grandfather could tell that that there was something the boy had not told him. Elliott’s father stood there, still, wearing his work clothes. He looked tired and beaten and clearly angry but he was calm and patient and waited for his son to approach him. Elliott broke away from his Grandfather slowly, and Grandfather nodded to his son, whilst the most important thing in both their lives moved from one man to the other.

‘What happened today, Elliott? You left your dorm room in the middle of the night. Where did you go?’ Elliott’s father asked him. There was no anger in his voice.

Elliott did not look at his father. He stared at his feet.

‘John, There is no harm done,’ the old man offered. 

Father snapped. He shouted at Grandfather, years of rage pent up released at once, ‘you do not know what harm is done father. You aren’t involved. You lost that right years ago.’

John Hunter lifted his son’s chin and knelt down to look him in the eye. There was not a great difference in their height but Elliott was still a few inches shorter than his father. John was cross but he lowered his voice to talk to the boy.

‘I’m trying to help, but you cannot keep running away every time you don’t like it there. Assessment is a few days away.’

‘What’s this about John? Grandfather could not conceal his concern and sadness at his son’s distress.

John did not look at his father, but his body twisted I just such a way that both knew that the elder man had his son’s attention, even if he had not said anything aloud. John’s eyes remained fixed on his son.

‘Like you I wanted a better life for my son. And I don’t think it’s going to happen. Why do you think he came here? He’s getting into fights. He was trying to hide.’

‘Is this true Elliott?’ Grandfather asked, his eyebrows crinkled and his face lower than before.

Elliott looked up at Grandfather and then his father.

‘Yes. In a manner of speaking’

‘Great, so he will answer you but not me.’ John sighed. ‘Come on Elliott we are going home. Then I’m taking you back to school. Now.’

John walked out of the theatre, the door swinging shut behind him. Elliott looked at his grandfather, who gave the boy a smile, a small joy returning to his face.

‘It’s always been like that between us. He has a lot to be angry about, Elliott. Come and see me again soon. Go and look after him. He needs you. You are both welcome here, you do know that don’t you? Maybe if you talk to him, he may decide he wants to come back here also?’

John waited for Elliott on the main steps outside the theatre. A light breeze greeted them as they walked out into the early morning air. The Theatre behind them showed obvious signs of decay and wear. A beautiful building sadly neglected, so different from the rest of Prosperity in style, as if brought from another place. Above the lobby door Elliott could see the main sign that read Edward J Hunter Proprietor, except much of the lettering was worn. Edward never stepped foot outside the Theatre, and so the paintwork and the brass of the decoration had long ago started to wear away and now the theatre looked old and tired, much like its owner.  Father and son stepped from the Theatre porch onto the main street of the town of Prosperity. John noticed immediately how the inelegant angles of his fathers’ theatre conflicted with the regimented squares of the main streets paving. It was now early morning and the summer sun was breaking through the clouds over the coastline. The first people were making their way on the main street to their businesses and through the group of market stalls that had started rolling out in the main square.

‘Come on son, let’s get you home – You have an hour or two before I need to get you back to school. You need to get some rest’

‘When can we come back to visit Grandfather again?’ Elliot asked innocently.

John looked away and waited for a moment, then rubbed his nose with his sleeve. He wanted the question to go away for the time being.

‘Can we please not talk about that now? I need to stop at the Boat then I’d like to get home.’ He looked away to the coastline and his gaze did not alter. Elliott tried to sense whether there was any movement in him at all, but he always found his father difficult to read. Elliott realised that this was not the time and put one foot ahead of the other and started walking the mile or so towards home. Realising his son had given up on his question John followed him through the town. The had to pass through the main square all the way along the central street and out the other side of Prosperity before they would be home, a journey that would take them a good half hour. Elliott was already hungry and tired from his adventurous night, but now he felt famished.   

The main square was like many others that could be found in towns along the coast. All had grown from fishing ports to busy towns that supported numerous types of trade, but Prosperity had had the good fortune to become the main shipping port of this stretch of the coastline, securing its future. Built around a large cove the town was home to hundreds of ships and merchants who based themselves in warehouse districts that lined the south side of the cove. The north side was filled with commerce and businesses that supported the crews and passengers of the many vessels. Rows of taverns and hostels stretched back from the waters edge to the main street about a mile away from the cove itself. At the very southern end of town the Theatre sat on a crossroads with the three main roués converging a short distance from the front doors. Standing outside the Theatre you could see all the way down the main street, and a short way down the two streets that ran parallel with it. At the other end was the main square. John and Elliott walked down the main street. Carts passed them as they walked, with traders pulling fresh stock up from the docks. Anything could be purchased in the main square: Produce grown in the farms in the land around the town. Sea creatures harvested from the ocean by the fishing boats that arrived each morning, their cargoes as fresh as they could be, packed in ice. By the time they had arrived in the main square everything was busy and the market was ready for paying customers. Stalls covered with brightly coloured tarpaulins to ward off rain were everywhere arranged neatly in lines. They seemed to go on forever all the way to the far side of the town, up the main street to the front of the central administration building. 

Elliott saw that his favourite stall was already open. It sold pastries, freshly baked, that could be eaten straight away. The two Hunters had often stopped here when Elliott was younger on their way to the docks for a hot pastry. It was always the same. The smell was alluring. The sweet odour caught the Hunters in its trap, warm flaky butter pastry mixed with summer berries and John looked down at his son and knew how he could start to bring him back.

‘Come on son, let’s get some Breakfast.’

Elliott’s face changed as he realised that he was being offered a treat, and if he knew he was being bribed he did not care. It felt to him like the old days again and for a few moments at least they was no school, no nightmares, just his father and him together. And he knew his Grandfather was alive and well. For a few moments he could be happy.