A Dusk of Demons by John Christopher

said. “Come along, the three of you.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    The building to which we were taken overlooked the harbor. From the window I could see the cargo ship heading for the open sea. It looked like a good place to be. The room we were in was small, with gloomy green walls marked by damp stains, a ceiling that had darkened to grubby yellow, and a planked floor. There was a smell of dust and ink.
    The man who had put his hand on Joe’s shoulder sat behind a desk, looking through documents. Joe stood between Paddy and me, an arm behind each of us. Silence, broken only by the rustle of paper, pressed heavier as time crawled by. After interminable minutes the door opened and the second man appeared, accompanied by the soldiers from the quay. They still had their guns, and for apulse-stilling moment I wondered if this could be an execution squad.
    The man behind the desk barked an order and they faced him at attention, thumbs pointing rigidly along the seams of their trousers. I noticed something which first relieved me, then alarmed me further: The hand of the soldier next to me was trembling.
    â€œTroopers Growcott and Benton, Second Platoon, C company, Colonel Markham’s brigade—correct?”
    The soldier on the right braced himself. “Yes, sir!”
    â€œAssigned to harbor duty, such duty to include checking all strangers seeking to enter the General’s territory. About turn!” They spun around with a clomp of feet. “See these three?”
    The one with the trembling hand didn’t look much older than I was. His face was round and red, and he swallowed hard.
    â€œThese foreigners,” the man with the peaked cap said, “entered General Pengelly’s territory during your period of duty, without challenge. Do you offer any excuse?”
    â€œThe traders were coming off. We didn’t see—”
    â€œNo.” The voice was indifferent. “You didn’tsee them. Perhaps your company commander will give you reason to be more observant. You are on report. Dismiss.”
    They were marched out, a look of plain fear on the younger soldier’s face, and he turned to us. “Names.”
    â€œJoe Hardwick. And this is—”
    â€œThey can speak for themselves.” His finger pointed. “You.”
    â€œPatricia Ryan.”
    â€œAnd you, boy?”
    â€œBen,” I said.
    â€œBen what?”
    It had always been simply Ben. At school I had been called Ben Ryan. I had known it was wrong—assumed I was an orphan—but had left it at that. Ben son-of-the-Master? I said, “Just Ben, sir.”
    He shook his head impatiently but returned to Joe. “Place of origin?”
    â€œThe Western Isles.”
    â€œAll three of you?”
    â€œYes.”
    He tapped a pencil on his desk, stretched backin his chair, then got up and left the room. A key turned in the lock behind him.
    At least we were on our own and could talk. I asked Joe, “What’s going to happen?”
    â€œNothing much, I’d think. They may say we’ve got to go back. And as to that, once we’re at sea we can go wherever we choose.”
    â€œThose soldiers—”
    â€œWhat of ’em?”
    â€œHe said they were on report. Does that mean they’ll be punished for letting us through?”
    â€œMaybe so.”
    â€œWhat will they do to them?”
    â€œI don’t know, never having been a soldier nor wanted to be. Give ’em extra duties, perhaps.”
    I did not believe it was a prospect of more duties that had made the young soldier tremble, and I didn’t think Joe did either. And if their own men were so fearful, what might happen to those responsible for getting them into trouble?
    Paddy said, “Do you think there’s any chance of getting out of the window?”
    We went to look. The window was sealed shut,and breaking it wouldn’t help. The building was as tall as