Hour of Darkness
Chapter One, I've Got A Feeling
Paul sat on the snow white shag carpeting of his flat, strumming fruitlessly on his guitar.
"When they told me I could fly
I thought that I might die
I didn't believe them then
And I don't believe them now...somehow...and how...AARGH!"
He tossed his guitar to the side, frustrated and
very hungry. He stood up, flexing his muscles and massaging his blistered,
bloody fingers. He'd been playing the same song for three hours, but he couldn't
get past the first stanza. He needed a break, anyway. Paul got up to go to the
fridge, opening the door and taking out a soda. He popped off the top with his
long fingers, cursing as the bottlecap reopened his cuts from playing for so
long. He thought of buying some gloves, then decided they would be too bulky. He sighed airily;
he'd have to play a lot more to work on building up calluses.
Paul went to the cupboard and got out a bag of chips, returning
to the bedroom and lying spread-eagled on the floor, munching on a handful of
chips and washing them down with orange soda now and again. Christ he
thought to himself. Am I losing my touch? Just then the doorbell rang,
breaking his concentration. He sighed, not wanting to be bothered. Nonetheless,
he shouted "It's open!"
The door to his flat opened, and soft footsteps padded towards
his room. "bloody 'ell, Paul! Where are ye?" It was John.
"In 'ere." Paul responded. There was a loud crash and a curse.
"Shit! Why is it so fuckin' dark in 'ere?"
Paul realized he hadn't turned on the lights. He preferred
playing in the dark so he wouldn't have to depend on sight to play. He liked
scanning the crowd of adoring fans during the concerts; he'd rather look at them
versus his guitar strings. John fumbled around and eventually found his way to
the bedroom and flicked on the light. Paul squeezed his eyes shut to block out
the sudden burst of light. John stood at the doorway, spectacles sliding down
to the tip of his nose. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his faded,
frayed jeans. "What's up?"
"Bah. I think I'm losing it."
John smirked. "We figured you already had."
Paul threw the empty bag of chips at him, but it bounced
harmlessly off his white t-shirt. "C'mon, Paul. Cheer up. It's just a lapse.
Everyone's go 'em. Go for a walk or something. We can grab the other lads an go
out for a beer or somethin'. Eh? Whaddya say?"
Paul shrugged. "Eh, why not. Nothin' better to do. Remind me to
call Jane later, though."
"Awww..." John put on his most pitiful face, batting his
eyelashes
behind his granny glasses
"Does Paulie miss his widdle Janie Waney? Awww...."
Paul cursed under his breath as he used John's offered hand to
pull himself up off the floor.
"C'mon, mate! Cheer up!" Paul grumbled something about not
wanting to cheer up. He gave John a playful shove and the singer landed on his
bum in his pit, pouting. "Temper, temper!"
Paul abandoned his guitar in the middle of his respective room and
helped his friend from the pit. He then followed John outside, his lungs
filling with the pure spring air.
Paul breathed deeply, the clean, Liverpool air vaporizing all
previous frustrations. John noticed the smile on Paul's lips, and he too smiled,
starting to hum Hello Goodbye. Eventually he began to sing and Paul joined in. They
got some funny looks, but they didn't care. Realization dawned on Paul, and he
punched John hard in the shoulder.
"Bloody hell...John! You had to go and cheer me up!"
John looked all innocent and bashful, mocking his (only slightly)
cuter friend. "Oh, Paulie! I'm *so* sorry! Will you, nay, can you ever
forgive me?!" He got down on his knees, making a terrible scene. "Macca! Don't
leave me! You're the only one for me!"
Paul started walking quickly in the opposite direction. John quit
fooling around and jumped up to run after his friend. John soon started humming again. They
walked along the busy Liverpool sidewalk, as yet unnoticed by the girls they
passed. John loosened a ring from his left thumb, twirling it around his long
index finger. He had gotten the ring in a fan letter, but he made sure not to
get it stuck on his hand, unlike his unfortunate mate, Ringo. Not like it looked
sacrificial or anything. It was kind of nice; it had sky blue and cream coloured
triangles around the silver band. He flipped round his finger, enjoying the
bright spring air. Suddenly, when John wasn't paying attention, the ring flew
off his long finger. "No! That's me favourite ring!" He ran after the silver
object, stumbling over his own tennis shoes. Paul lazily jogged after, figuring
that the ring would eventually come to a stop and his friend could nab it. And
stop it did...
...in the nearest sewer grill.
John stared in disbelief, on his hands and knees next to
the gutter. He peered into the dark sewer, but didn't see any sign of his
precious ring. He moaned, rocking back to sit on the sidewalk. He covered his
face with his beautiful hands; not crying, just really unhappy. Paul shifted
uncomfortably, then put his hand on John's shoulder. "Listen, mate..." his
voice trailed off, not knowing what to say. John's head jerked up. "We have to
get it back!" Paul stared at him in astonishment. "But...how?" John paused for a
moment, deep in thought. He snapped his fingers, a look of triumph on his face.
"I've got it! What if we get a pool stick, put some gum on the bottom..."
"Where are we going to get a pool stick? And would it be
long enough? Sorry, mate, but I don't think we could see it anyway..."
"Yes, that is a flawed plan." The two young Liverpudlians
turned, astonished, to see an old beggar leaning against and older and almost as
crooked cane. "You'll never get it out in that fashion."
John's mouth moved like a fish's, but no sound came out.
Paul was the first to speak. "Who.."
"Never mind that. It's who are you that must be asked."
"We're..."
"Paul and John. I know."
"You've seen us? Like on the telly?"
"No."
"You've heard of us?"
"Nope."
"Uhm..."
"I just know."
Paul looked completely astonished, but John was just worried
about his ring. "Can you help us then, sir?" Paul asked, noticing the anguished
stares his friend was casting at the gutter.
"Of course." The old man said no more. Paul shifted
uncomfortably. "Well?" he finally
asked.
"Patience, young one." The man closed his eyes,
and Paul started gettinganxious. The man opened his eyes.
"Well?" John asked. "Can you do anything?"
The man blinked slowly. "It is done." John looked
puzzled. The old man motioned towards the his pocket. John reached into his jeans pocket
incredulously, not quite expecting what he found. He pulled out a circular piece
of silver with blue and white triangles on it. "My ring!" he kissed it (after
wiping it on his shirt) and put it back on his finger. Paul looked completely
astonished, his jaw practically hanging to the sidewalk. "But how..." The old
man smiled a toothless grin.
"Thank you so much!" John sputtered, shaking the man's
gnarled hand vigorously. "How can I ever repay you?!" The man looked strangely
thoughtful.
"I could use a few strong backs to aid my frail form."
"We'll do anything!"
Paul looked slightly shocked. "Whaddya mea, 'we'?!" He
whispered harshly. John turned his puppy dog eyes on Paul, and the cute one
reluctantly gave in, thinking to himself, It can't be that bad. He's just an
old man; what could he want? And how... Paul broke out of his reverie to see
the old man and John walking down the street. "Hey!" he called. "Wait for
me!"
* * * *
The old man's living was obviously not very glamorous. It was a tiny
alleyway cramped between two run-down apartment flats. The man hobbled slowly,
leaning heavily on his cane. John and Paul followed patiently, once again
ignoring the occasional strange look from passersby. The old man limped into the
alley, drawing an old ratty sheet from across the entrance to make way for the
two young followers. He folded the sheet back over the opening when they had
entered. John squinted behind his glasses, waiting for his eyes to adjust to
the dim lighting. Paul sneezed loudly at the layer of dust and city grime that
seemed to cover everything in the alley home.
"Bless you."
"Thanks."
The old man dusted off three chairs, placing them around a large table
which was covered by a gray sheet which was presumably once white. He motioned
for them to sit, and they did. The man drew off the cover, revealing an oak
table full of intricately carved symbols and pictures; here and there were
embedded globules of amber. Upon closer inspection, the shimmering spheres held
insects, four different types, trapped in time by the amber which seemed to glow
in the fading light.
The man placed his hands on the table. "Now, my sons," he began, "I
have a very important task for your able bodies. Unfortunately, it is paralleled
in peril; I can sense, however, that you have strong souls. This is why you were
brought here."
The two young men sat a little straighter after this compliment. They
nodded for the aged man to continue.
"I need you to bring me..." He shuffled around in a dusty pile of
greasy brown papers, producing a small statuette.
"...the Raenth." He placed the figure into an impression in the middle
of the table; something clicked. A ghostly projection of the full-sized Raenth,
about two feet in height, turned slowly before two pairs of astonished eyes.
The Raenth consisted of two people, one man, one woman, in a tight embrace,
limbs entwined as if nothing could separate them. At some points in the statue,
the bodies seemed to meld together, to become one and the same. The entire
statue was composed of the blackest onyx.
John took advantage of the situation to become extremely skeptical.
"Look, luv, this is gear and all, but why can't you get it yourself? You nabbed
my ring with no problem. Besides, I don't believe in all this messed-up mystic
garbage."
Paul froze, scared that his friend had offended the frail form sitting
before them. The man, however, only nodded slowly. John folded his arms over
his chest impatiently, leaning precariously in his chair. "Where is this thing,
anyway? How would we get there?"
The man nodded again, saying, "Yes. I expected this. I cannot retrieve
the Raenth myself simply because of my declining form, regardless of the state
of my mind. You were chosen for soundness of body, mind, and spirit. However,
four would have been ideal...I myself will see you to Valeth where the talisman
is being held by the Dark One."
John couldn't take it anymore; he grabbed Paul's sleeve and hoisted him
from the chair. "We'll sleep on it, 'K? Great." he answered his own question.
"We'll be back tomorrow." The man watched them leave with sleepy eyes, then fell
into a trance.
As they left the alley through the dirty sheet, Paul regained his wits.
"Just what do you think you're doing?! This is the chance of a lifetime!" He
wrenched his arm from John's grip, the latter staring at him strangely.
"Don't tell me you believe that crap. That guy's completely lost
it!"
Paul looked hurt. "How do you explain how he knew us, huh?"
"Tell me you're joking. Everyone knows us! We're *the Beatles*,
for heaven's sake! Who doesn't know us?" John said in a hushed voice, not
wanting to attract attention.
They walked in silence for a while. Then, Paul had a revelation.
"Alright," he said slyly, "How'd he get your ring then, Johnny?"
This stopped John in his tracks, causing Paul to run into his back.
"Oof! Why'd you stop, Johnny? Is it *so* surprising that I'm right?" He mocked
gently.
But John didn't respond. He was deep in thought, twirling the ring
feverishly on his finger in his nervousness. He had forgotten about that.
He didn't want to admit it, but Paul had a point. How could
this guy have gotten his ring if he wasn't for real? No, John shook his
head, thinking to himself. There's got to be some explanation. But for
the life of him, he couldn't think of one.
He turned to Paul. "Let's go see George. He might know what's
happening. He's into all this mystic crap."
"Any idea where he is?"
"None. Check out the pubs."
"You're not coming?"
"I need some time to think." Paul looked at him, a concerned look on his
adorable face.
"You alright?"
John dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine. Go find George
and meet me back at the flat." Paul started walking off. "And Paul?" He turned
on his heel. "Grab Ringo if you see 'im. No sense in leaving him out." Plus the
guy said he wanted four... But he didn't say this out loud. Paul flashed him
a thumbs-up as he disappeared around the corner.
John wandered the city, heading in the general direction of the Beatle's
little flat. He thought hard, twirling the ring incessantly in his nervousness.
Who is this man? Is he serious? Hell, is he crazy?! Why us? What does this
Raeth do? Who is the Dark One?
John opened the door to the communal flat, frustration evident on his
handsome features. He tumbled wearily into the pit, falling asleep thinking,
Well, I said I'd sleep on it...
* * * *
Paul wandered the city, too, but his meandering path had a purpose; he was
looking for his lost bandmates. He checked al the pubs first, finally finding
them at the second to last place he checked. Fortunately, they were in the same
place. Unfortunately, they were in the same condition; stone drunk.
"Hullo, Paulie! What's hangin'?" George slurred, the scotch evident on his
breath and in his manner; he swaggered this way and that, grabbing hold of
chair backs to keep himself upright. Ringo swayed as he stood, hiccuping
constantly as he spoke.
"How 'ya *hic* doin', Paul?" Ringo leaned his head on his friend's shoulder;
Paul wrinkled his nose.
"C'mon, lads. Party's over. Time to go home."
"Aw, c'mon Paulie. You're such a party pooper..." George swayed
dangerously, Paul catching him before he fell flat on his face.
"Yea, *hic* you never let us have any *hic* fun!" Ignoring the protests,
Paul dragged the two outside and towards home.
* * * *
John awoke to the sound of someone singing loudly; actually, two someones.
One hiccuped between almost every word. The door to the flat swung open, and in
came the source of the awful noise. Ringo and George stumbled in, each leaning
heavily on a very disgruntled looking Paul.
"I've got a feelin' I think that everybody knows...oh, hullo, John, luv.
Have a nice kidoodles?" John ignored the gibberish, smiling and nodding. He
knew all too well this 'feeling' George was speaking of.
"Hi *hic* Johnny!" Evidently Ringo had the same 'feeling'. John sighed.
"Bedtime, boys. Sleep it off."
"But daddy! *hic* I wanna go ta the *hic* zoo!"
John smiled in spite of the situation. "The sooner you get to bed, the
sooner we can get to the zoo!"
"Yay! *hic*" Ringo flopped onto his bright blue bed, asleep before he hit the
pillow (or he passed out; John wasn't entirely sure). George was already
asleep, but he was still standing; he snored softly as he drooled on Paul's
shoulder. Paul made a face.
"Man! I just had this suit dry-cleaned!"
John laughed quietly as he picked up the youngest Beetle and dumped him into
his green bed. George didn't even stir as John pulled off his boots; Paul
relieved Ringo of his. Paul yawned.
"Why not. G'night, John."
"G'night, Paul."
"G'night, John."
"G'night, Ringo."
"G'night, John."
"G'night, George."
"G'night John."
"Shaddup!"
* * * *
The youngest and oldest Beatles awoke to the sound of sizzling bacon and pancakes
on the griddle. Mouths watering, they ignored their crippling hangovers and
dragged themselves into chairs around the kitchen table. George put his forehead
on the table, Ringo holding his head in his hands. John plopped two plates of
bacon, eggs, and pancakes in front of them. They ate like they never had before.
John hummed Good Morning, Good Morning.
The two hungover band members ate ravenously, George leaving nothing on his
plate, Ringo picking his up and literally licking it clean. Paul pranced into the
room, boasting a chef hat and apron. He stopped dead at the sight of his three
friends stuffing themselves with pancakes, his face falling. "Any for me?" He
pouted.
John looked thoughtful for a second. "Hmmm...no."
Paul stuck out his lower lip, his chin quivering. George shoved a plate of
breakfast at him, and Paul joined in the food fest. After they finished, Paul
leaned back with a sigh, patting his stomach.
"Hey...John?"
"Yea."
"Should we tell 'em now?"
"Go 'ead. I'm still hungry..." John stalked off to the kitchen in search of
cold pizza...
Paul relayed the entire story; the ring, the sewer, the old man, the alley, the
table, the Raenth, Valeth. Ringo and George listened intently, nodding every now
and again. Paul finished, looking at the other two expectantly.
George looked at Ringo, raising one bushy eyebrow. "Ringo?"
"Yea?"
"Am I still drunk?"
"Nope."
"Am I crazy?"
"Not so's you'd notice."
"Shit. Paul, have you lost it?" At this point, John returned, gnawing on a slice
of still-frozen pizza.
"No, I vouch for 'im. So!" he finished off the piece of cardboard pizza. "We
goin', lads?"
John looked at Paul. Paul looked at George. George looked at Ringo. Ringo looked at
John.
"Let's go!" they all said unanimously, laughing.
A white flash enveloped the four almost instantly.
On To Chapter
Two!
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