The Berserker -
Chapter 4
The classroom emptied and Mr Owen sat down behind his desk, breathing a contented sigh of relief that the lesson, and the school day, was over.
He began tidying his desk, shuffling the reams of paperwork that was the remnants of the last week’s homework project, and he placed them into an arch lever folder so he could take them home and mark them over a glass of wine.
Wilson and Marcus were still sat at the back of the class talking quietly to each other.
“We can just ask him now and then at least we have time to get the library if he doesn’t know anything,” Wilson whispered.
Marcus nodded in agreement.
“Well you can ask him,” He said defensively, “He hates my guts for some reason.”
Wilson stood up, resisting the argument between them as to who was going to ask Mr Owen, and walked quietly down the centre of the desks.
He approached with apprehension, as he, as well as all the other kids in the school, knew that the teacher of history with the nickname of ‘orrible Owen was just as likely to explode with anger as he was to agree to help them.
“Sir,” he said, as he got within 2 desk lengths.
Mr Owen looked up from the register he was completing and stared at Wilson, trying to figure which one of the brats it was who was bothering him now.
“Who is that?” he said as he peered over his glasses. “Is that Bracewell? And who’s that behind you? Robson I would suspect.”
The professor of history had a reputation of being the angriest teacher at Blaise Comp, something that was unfairly given to him at the school, as his temper had been frayed by the battering of teenagers over the 40 years he had been teaching them, but his knowledge of what had occurred through the history of the modern world was second to no-one.
“What do you want?” he finally asked as he waited for the boys to exit the room.
“We were wondering if we could ask you for a bit of information sir,” Wilson asked shyly, something that was very strange for him.
“If you want information then I am sure Mrs Gold can assist you at reception,” he said dismissively, as he continued with the register.
“No, sir, you don’t understand,” Marcus said as he joined Wilson at his shoulder. “We were looking for information on,” he paused as he contemplated whether he should ask or just run from the classroom with his hands in the air, screaming at the top of his voice, “Trolls,” he said as he waited for the explosion.
They both winced as they prepared themselves for a backlash of shouting from the volatile teacher, but they were to be surprised by his reaction.
“Do you mean trolls as in the little dolls with the wild green hair, or the trolls that live in caves and rocks, and, according to the Norse mythology, hate humans with a passion?”
The boys thought they detected a smile hidden behind the teachers’ wall of defence.
“Well, if the little green haired ones live on Holy Island, then that would be the ones,” Wilson joked.
Mr Owen sat forward quickly.
“You boys have been to Holy Island?”
“No sir,” Marcus said.
“Just Blaise Pool,” Wilson added.
“But you saw something?” he accused them.
The boys stood motionless, as though one move would sentence them to immediate death.
They weren’t too sure who spoke first, but the reaction from Mr Owen would’ve been the same either way.
”Heard,” was the word that was said.
Steven Owen jumped to his feet with a shriek of excitement. He clasped his hands together in a single loud bang as he punched the air.
“I knew it,” he said. “Splashing, right?”
The boys nodded in unison, expressionless.
“Yes,” he said in the same excited way as he sat back down at his desk and pulled a laptop from his briefcase. “Grab a chair,” he offered to them both, which they both accepted with a glance and a smile.
Mr Owen had lowered his school barrier and had changed to the man he would become as he exited the school gates on his way home.
He began to tap away at the keys on his laptop, resulting in a series of pings, until a smile broadened on his illuminated face.
“When I was 16 years old,” he said, as he stared at the screen, “We, I mean I, was fishing on the shores of Blaise Pool. It was 5.30 in the morning in the middle of December, and the sky was a blaze of sparkling stars. As I opened my can of cola I saw a figure silhouetted against the ruined church walls that I was sure was a bear, or something as big.” He looked up from the laptop and smiled at the boys. “To this day I have never told anyone else about what happened on that morning back in 1966.” He leant back in his chair and flexed his fingers, causing each one to crack at the knuckle, and then smiled as he looked back to the screen. “One of the things I would always carry with me when I went fishing was a pair of bird watching binoculars, so I grabbed them from my bag and focused on the figure on the island. What I saw was definitely not a bear, and it was definitely not a green haired little toy.” Wilson and Marcus were hanging onto every word their teacher was saying. They had moved forward and were leaning on the edge of his desk. “The second thing I always carried was a camera.”
“What was it?” Wilson asked, engrossed.
Mr Owen turned the laptop around slowly to show the boys the picture he had taken.
The grainy colour photograph was difficult to make out as the flash had not quite captured the main character in it, which looked like a large, almost hairless ape-like creature that had a huge bulbous nose on a small head. Its beady eyes were shining bright against the flash, and it gave the creature an eerie look.
Wilson and Marcus both stared at the photograph, turning their heads from left to right as they tried to figure it out.
“What is it, sir?” Wilson asked, looking at Mr Owen.
The teacher turned the laptop back and began clicking again, before he stopped and turned it back to show them two pictures side by side.
The original photograph was now on the right side of the screen and it had now been joined by another colour picture of the almost same creature, just clearer.
“This picture on the left side is a drawing from an encyclopaedia on Norse mythology,” Mr Owen told them mystically. “They call these creatures trolls.”
“It’s a troll?” Marcus asked, as he reached out to the laptop.
“What is Norse mythology?” Wilson asked, ignoring Marcus. “Is it to do with Thor and stuff?”
Mr Owen laughed lightly as he turned the computer back to face him.
“In a small way, yes,” he said. “Thor is a divine figure in Norse mythology, along with his brother Loki and his father Odin, but there are many Norse Gods and Goddesses that haven't had a movie made about them.” He stared intently at Wilson, holding a slight smile, but still as though he had asked the silliest question in the world. “Norse mythology is predominately from Norway,” he went on, “But it has connections to Scandinavian and Viking beliefs from a pre-Christian religion that includes the people who settled in Iceland. It was originally a collection of beliefs and stories that were shared by Northern Germanic tribes.” He carried on as though he was teaching the class again. “Now, the troll is a member of a mythical race that we would call giants, a little like you would read about in Jack and the beanstalk, or the ogres that are found in English folklore. They are smaller in size though, and can be similar to humans in the way they look. They lived in hills, caves or rock gatherings, in small family units, but they haven’t been seen in this country for 50 years, at least not reportedly seen. People would keep the sightings secret though, as they would be scorned upon if they said they had seen a mythical creature that most people would say didn’t actually exist.”
Marcus put his hand up instinctively to ask a question, and Mr Owen pointed at him to give permission.
“So, there are trolls living on Holy Island?”
He said the sentence as though he was mesmerised by the thought of it.
Mr Owen turned the laptop around again and pointed at his original picture.
“You tell me,” he said as he tapped the photograph on the screen.
“What about Berserkers?” Wilson asked, also raising his hand.
Mr Owen looked at Wilson and held his gaze while he considered the answer.
“The Berserkers are still trolls,” he said, “But the word is a description of how the troll behaves before it attacks. Its occurrence was supposed to have been triggered by the total eclipse of the Sun, as though that event would drag them out from their hideouts in broad daylight as the craving for warm blood was at its highest. They would grow in size the more they ravaged, until either all the warm bloodied meat had been consumed, or until the elder of the family would order it over. It was because of the way they would attack humans so viciously, that they were banished from the mainland and pushed out to the Orkney and Shetland Islands north of Scotland. It was said that they could not cross the bank of water, so the mainland was safe. That banishment is why they say that the elder trolls will attack humans on sight. The Berserk would happen because of the excitement, at the lust of tasting human blood, which is considered a delicacy in the troll’s diet. The blood of any warm bodied creature is said to drive the troll into an insane version of itself which will feast for more flesh and more blood, only being brought back to its original self by the elder of the family unit it was part of.” He lowered his voice as he peered at them over the laptop screen. “You must not go to that island boys,” he said, “You have to swear that you will keep away from there, especially at night. It’s a dangerous place to be if they attack without warning.” The boys nodded vigorously. “You need to swear to me,” he said sternly.
“We swear sir,” they said in unison.
“And it’s our secret about the picture that I took,” he reminded them. “I'm trusting you both here with a secret I have kept for the best part of my life.”
“You can trust us, sir,” Marcus said.
“Totally,” Wilson added.
“Good,” Mr Owen said as he closed the lid on his laptop. “Time to go,” he ordered them.
They both stood up and placed the chairs that they were sat on back under the desks, being careful not to drag them along the floor, and then turned back to the teacher, who was busy putting his laptop back into his briefcase.
“Who was with you?” Marcus asked, almost accusingly.
“When?” Mr Owen enquired.
“When you were fishing sir, you said we.”
Mr Owen looked at Marcus and thought for a second before answering.
“I was alone,” he said, not very convincingly.
Marcus and Wilson shared a glance that said enough was enough with the questions, as the teacher clearly didn’t want to answer them.
“Thank you, sir,” Wilson said.
“Yes, thanks,” Marcus agreed. “That was fascinating.”
“Just remember what I said about that island boys, it’s a dangerous place, especially with the events of Thursday coming up.”
“Yes sir,” they both said as they headed for the door.
“A lot of crap about a lot of crap,” Marcus said under his breath, just loud enough for Wilson to hear.
“Fascinating though,” Wilson said as they left the classroom, “And there was definitely something he was hiding about that night.”
“Definitely,” Marcus agreed.
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