Chapter One - Atticus Drake

The man in the bed woke up. He was disorientated, and for a moment or two, he could remember nothing. For a second he panicked, fearing one of his greatest gifts had deserted him. This panic was only brief, however, as his memory soon returned. His name was Atticus Drake, and his profession of finding missing and hiding people had lead him to a huge, dense forest in Oregon. Just one thing still eluded him. Who was he there to find? He looked around the room. It was pleasantly, if sparsely, decorated. The bed was in middle of the wall with a space on either side. The door was opposite the bed. In the corner to the left of the door was a wardrobe, to his right, next to the bed was a dresser, and to the left, a chair. There was only one window, in the wall on the left of the bed. Gentle morning sunlight poured in and across the room, the wooden panels on the wall of which were painted a pleasant, light yellow. Something flashed into his mind...

Atticus was standing in the forest. Ahead of him was a tall sinewy man, standing with his back to him. Ahead further still was another man, further off. He was facing Atticus, but his face was obscured. There was a flash of light. The tall man began to turn around...

This flash of the past, however, faded as soon as it came. Then Atticus passed out again.

When Atticus woke up again, it was at least a couple of hours later. He tried sit up, only to fail due to a searing pain in his midriff. He pushed the bed sheet aside with his left hand and looked down. His stomach and lower ribs were heavily bandaged. He had no memory of how or why this was. He gritted his teeth and sat up. The pain of this second attempt woke him up fully. Rubbing his eyes, he finally noticed the plaster cast on his right arm. This apparent injury to his wrist was also a mystery to him. He looked around the room again. I've woke up in worse places, he thought. This was true. Due to his occupation, and his natural preference for nature and animals over towns and people, Atticus spent most nights in the wild. It was then that Atticus noticed the girl. She had been sitting on the chair under the window the whole time. Her hair was a light, auburn blonde colour, in loose curls. The window framed her, and the light shone through her hair giving it the appearance of a halo. Maybe I'm dead, he thought. The pain quickly reminded him, from behind the bandages, that he was very certainly alive. Just as Atticus was about to return his attention to the girl, the door opened, and he was astonished at the sight of the person entering the room. It was a young man, around 19, with the same auburn blonde hair as the girl, cut short and neat. He had a handsome face, with the happy air of a child, and remarkably bright, sparkling eyes. They were eyes that implied a kind, gentle demeanour. Atticus later noted that it was a good thing this young man's his face was so indicative of his personality, as the body below the face would otherwise have been menacing to say the least. He was bluntly put, huge. As he came through the door, Atticus noticed that not only did he have to duck to fit under the door, but he also had to turn partly side ways to fit through, otherwise his breadth would have been to great. Atticus was reasonably tall himself, but this visitor would have towered over him, and his imposing frame dominated the room. And yet... Atticus' gaze was drawn to the young lady to his left. She was, like the young man, pale and smooth skinned, with a few scattered freckles. She was beautiful, and had a strong, presumably family, resemblance to the young man. But Atticus was unable to tell if she had the same sparkling eyes as the young man, as she appeared to be wearing a blindfold. It was made of the same fabric, and had the same pattern as the dress she was wearing. The young man put he tray he was carrying on the dresser on Atticus' right.

"Thank you, Garrison." said the young lady. Her voice was soft and sweet, with a quality to it that Atticus could only describe as helpful.

The young man smiled at her, then glanced inquisitively at Atticus and back to the young lady.

"I think he's getting much better." she said, as if his glance contained an unheard question about Atticus' condition. The young man smiled again, then left, walking as quietly as his hulking size would allow.

"That's my brother Garrison," the young lady cheerily announced "we're twins. What is your name? You've been unable to tell us since my father brought you here, and we could find nothing on your person that might provide any clue."

"Atticus. Drake." Atticus spoke slowly, pausing to calm himself and consider his reply, as he always did. "Atticus Drake. May I know yours?"

The young lady smiled. An unexpected delight. A smile almost worth getting cut up and smashing your ribs and breaking your wrist to see, Atticus thought. Well, almost. She didn't just a smile with her mouth. Her whole face changed briefly to happiness.

"Heather Lukas."

She reached down and picked up a black cane that was on the floor in front of her. A brief look of surprise rose and then faded on her face.

"You're looking at my mask, aren't you?"

"Yes," Atticus couldn't lie to a face like that. "I'm sorry."

"I don't mind. I've never had anyone to notice it before, but I take no offence from it. I am blind. I know that doesn't explain my eye mask, but it's a long story, and my father wanted me to fetch him as soon as you woke up. I shall return shortly." With that, she got up and cheerfully left the room, without using the cane.

Without using the cane. Atticus sat back, and tried to relax. He began to notice other strange things about his two hosts. Garrison made no inquiry about his condition, but following a brief glance, Heather answered an unasked question. How did she know he was looking at the mask? What did she mean, she never had anyone to notice it before? He also thought it was strange that he was able to speak so easily with her. Usually, Atticus found it difficult to speak to most people. He had to think before he spoke, and found he either spoke too quietly, or too quickly. At the worst of times, he would begin to breathe heavily and quickly, and a dread feeling that he would be unable to breathe at all set in. Yet, with Heather, someone he had known for barely ten minutes, he had no such problems. A second unexpected delight. Angelic, he thought. I might not be dead, but she is certainly angelic enough to be there. He had little time to consider these things, as the door opened again. Another visitor. No, this must be my host, he thought. Through the door came a large man, similar in shape and scale to Garrison, although he was somewhat shorter. He was a around 45, and had the same colour hair as Heather and Garrison, short and neat, with a close beard. He also had the same bright eyes as Garrison.

"Mr. Lukas, I take it? My kind host?" Atticus had hoped this would come out as easily and clearly as when he spoke to Heather, but it didn't. Instead, the words burst out as he feared they would.

"Yes, Mr.. Drake. But I insist my friends and guests call me Dante. Only my students need call me Mr..." He had a warm, kind voice. Atticus felt a similar calm to before upon hearing it.

"Where am I?" It had not fully struck Atticus before, but he had no idea as to his whereabouts.

"Newhaven. You were in the forest, and I happened across you."

The name had no real meaning to Atticus, but he decided that his newly acquired wounds and apparent broken bones were of slightly more pressing concern.

"How were my injuries caused?"

"You appear to have been set upon by... by the animals in the forest."

"What kind of animals?" Atticus didn't like the pause.

"None to worry about now. How are the wounds? The doctor will come to see you soon enough, but my daughter has been attending to you. She thinks they are healing nicely."

"They hurt, but I think she is right. May I ask a question about her?"

"By all means."

"She mentioned that she is blind, and that she has never had anyone to notice her eye mask before. I was wondering what she meant." Atticus was hesitant about asking. He was anxious not to risk offending such a lady, or her father, but he had to know.

"She was blinded by illness when she was ten, and has had to wear the mask ever since. As this is not a large town, it didn't take nine whole years for everyone to know."

Atticus looked somewhat dissatisfied at the answer. Dante appeared the sense why.

"She has had no one else to notice," he clarified "because we do not get visitors to pass through. To say our town is isolated is understatement itself. There is the forest for nearly three days journey in three directions, and the hills and mountains to the north. There is only one safe path through the forest, and I daren't reveal it to anyone. Doubtless you can appreciate the good fortune with which I found you."

"I can. But, only one path is safe from what?"

"The Creatures. The animals that attacked you." Dante's face had grown somewhat sterner that before, which made Atticus uneasy. This look, however faded quickly, and the kindly concerned expression returned. "Anyway, I'll leave you for now, but my daughter will return to see to you. Hopefully you'll be able to dine with us all soon?"

"I certainly do hope so."

"Good. If there is anything at all you require, please ask Heather. She'll be more than happy to help." Dante got up and left as he spoke. Atticus laid back, and surrendered to the tiredness that he had been vainly struggling with.

As he slept, the memory from earlier that day returned as a dream...

Atticus was running through the forest. His dog ran ahead of him. Suddenly it stopped. When Atticus caught up with him, it began to growl, ominously. In front of them was a tall sinewy man, standing with his back to him. Ahead further still was another man, further off. He was facing Atticus, but his face was obscured. There was a flash of light. The tall man began to turn around...

When Atticus woke again, it appeared to be noon. He looked to the window, and was disappointed to see that Heather wasn't there. The chair wasn't there either. Then, he felt someone smiling at him.

"So, you're awake again..."

Atticus looked to his right, where he had felt the smile come from. Heather was sitting next to the dresser, still smiling down at him.

"How could you tell?"

"I heard your breathing change. What is your dog's name? All the children are fascinated by it. They've never seen a beast of such size."

"Robaan. Is he all right?"

"Yes. The Creatures appeared to take no interest in him."

"Your father mentioned the creatures. What are they?"

"Nothing to worry about just now. All you really need to know is that we stay off the streets after dark, and to be asleep by midnight."

"Why by midnight?"

"I don't know if I should tell you, really. Just be asleep by midnight, and let the dawn wake you. Do you like the piano? I play the piano rather well."

"Yes, although I..., yes, I do."

"Maybe when you've recovered enough I shall have something to play for you." She seemed excited about the prospect.

She seemed in a good enough mood, so Atticus resolved to ask about the oddities of earlier in the day. Garrison's silence seemed to be the easiest element to ask about delicately.

"Your brother doesn't seem to speak much..." he ventured.

"He cannot. Garrison has been mute for as long as I have been blind." Heather seemed to still be cheerful enough, so he decided to continue.

"When you left before, you didn't make much use of your cane..."

Heather appeared to find this a rather amusing question. She giggled as she answered.

"If you had nine years to practice, I should think anyone could find their way around this town with their eyes closed. I don't really need my cane in the house at all."

As she spoke, more oddities began to surface in Atticus' mind. How could she possibly attend to his injuries without being able to see them? Why was there only one safe route through the forest, and if it was such a dangerous place, why would Dante be there? He decided to begin asking, delicately.

"May I ask, Heather, how can you attend to injuries you cannot see?" He crossed two mental fingers, in the hope that she would not be offended.

"I have ways. And please, calm down," she said, with the same kindly air her father and brother carried "Don't be so nervous about inquiring as to my affliction. I have already said I will take no offence." There was a short silence as Atticus decided whether or not to ask as to how she knew he was so concerned about offending her. The silence was broken by her answer.

"I can tell by your breathing. Whenever you are about to ask about my sight, your breathing increases. It is only reasonable for me to assume the cause to be fear of offending me. And I'm correct in this assumption, aren't I?"

"You are." Atticus smiled "You're very perceptive, aren't you?"

"In lots of ways." Heather laughed. Just like the smile, Atticus thought. Almost worth
suffering the injuries to hear such music. Almost. Heather's laugh spread throughout her, just as the smile took over her whole face. Her mouth, face, shoulders and chest, even her hair seemed to dance to the sound of it. Atticus wanted to tell her how pretty she was, but knew he would simply trip over the words. Later, he thought. Later I will. It was only as he thought this that Atticus realised his clothes and equipment were no where to be seen.

"Where are my clothes? And my equipment?"

"Your clothes are being cleaned, and when you are able to get up my father hopes you will find the clothes of his in the closet to your tastes. Some of them may be a little generous fitting, but Mr.. Glass will fix that." She seemed cheerful and inquisitive by nature, Atticus decided. "Your pack is in the bottom of the closet. My father buried some items that he would not describe to me, but Garrison leaves me to believe they are some manner of weaponry."

"Why would he bury my weapons?"

"We have no such things in this town, so I presume he thought it would be best, and that way children's curiosity would not be of any inconvenience that way, or put them at any risk. I hope you aren't cross."

"Of course not. I shouldn't want to offend anyone that I am a guest of." Normally, Atticus would be concerned, to say least, at his weapons being confiscated, but he wasn't. He thought at first that it was just due to the person breaking this news, but later decided that everyone that had visited him so far was eminently trustworthy.

Heather produced a book from a pocket.

"I wonder, would you be interested in reading something I have written. I like to write stories." She giggled again "My handwriting is somewhat messy, but I am assured it is legible."

Atticus turned red, and hesitated to answer.

"What's the matter?" She seemed to be genuinely concerned. Atticus briefly considered asking how she could tell, but he knew.

"I am afraid I cannot. You see, I was raised by an adoptive father, an elderly, wealthy man. When I was ten, I decided to learn the skills I would need to find my mother, who I had been told was alive when I came to my father's house. This meant leaving the school he sent me to, so I am afraid I am unable to read with any real skill."

A look of disappointment came across Heather's face. He decided instantly that he never wanted to see such a look on her again.

"If you leave me the book, I'll try to read it." The cheery look that Atticus was already used to returned. He was immensely relived. Something that Atticus had not, for some reason, considered yet bubbled to the surface of his mind.

"Heather," he ventured "how long have I been here?"

"I've had the pleasure of your company for four days. Before that, you spent a few days with Dr. Bachmann."

"Have you been alone? What about the lady of the house?"

"I am the lady of the house," she giggled "And when I'm not helping father at his work, I assist the doctor, so be assured you are in good hands."

Atticus suspected that he knew the answer already, but could not stop his next question escaping.

"What about your mother?"

It seemed as if That Look was creeping across Heather's countenance, but Atticus quickly realised this look was much worse. It wasn't disappointment, it was sadness.

"My mo..." she started, before biting her quaking lower lip for a second "Mother is
dead. She died nine years ago."

For five terrifying seconds, Atticus feared she would cry. He put his hand on hers, which were folded in her lap. She jumped slightly, then smiled.

"I'm sorry, I've never had to tell anyone about it. It's a small town, you know."

The Sorrow, Atticus would later name it, and sadly this was not the last time he would see it stain her. The Sorrow had left Heather's face, but her cheeriness didn't return for a few strange, silent moments as his hand lingered on hers.

"Would you like to hear a story?" Her happy air returned as she spoke, and Atticus sharply withdrew the hand.

"I would."

"All right. Once upon a dark and sad time..."

Atticus listened silently as Heather told her story, and wondered how a young lady so cheerful and sweet would know such a gruesome tale.