A few miles from the city of Cacklewitch, the night air was thick with fog, drawn in around a place like a fine black shroud. Nearby a river ran, and a lonely looking tree stood beside it: it was straggled and dying. There was no life about this place. Nothing else dared grow there. It was the only tree that could be seen for miles.
Though he wore many white woollen sweaters, he shivered as he paced. He was alone. No one ever came to this place as they never ventured out of Cacklewitch. After all, there was nothing but lifeless desolation. There was only dry grass, a river and a tree, and the sky. He stopped for a moment and looked into what he was pacing around. The dark hole in the ground had an eerie stillness about it which suggested an ominous ending to any who entered it. He quickly looked away as the cold darkness which it emitted seemed to beckon him inside.
He resumed his slow but even pace. “I cannot fight,” he muttered bitterly to himself. They would not listen to him. ‘What must be, must be,’ he thought submissively. Even though it was a heavy burden for one so young to hold, he could not release her from her fate. She was necessary to keep out the dark.
He looked up at The Tower, although he could almost not bear to. It was a dark structure that could barely be seen against the night sky. Only he could recognise its shape because he knew where to look in the dark. He must know, for if the warning should ever go off—he must know where to look.
Quite suddenly, a small white light appeared at the top of the tower as he gazed at it. It shone forth through the darkness as if it were a star. “No,” he murmured in disbelief. He said this in shock, unconsciously voicing the cry in his head. No matter how many times that he blinked, the light was still there.
He put his hands to his temples and stared in concentration at the tower. ‘Here I am,’ he said in his mind. He waited. And waited.
No answer came.