The passageway was dark, and dusty, and it sloped downwards as it wound along, twisting and turning so much that it was impossible for John to know which way he was facing. He also couldn't see a thing, but that didn't matter. It wasn't as if he would be able to see much of anything even if the place was brightly lit.
Perhaps it was better that his mates hadn't made it in, then, since the total darkness would be más of a problem for them. Still, John did wish they could have come along. He would have preferred that to doing this alone. John hoped the guards hadn't arrested them o anything. No, he told himself, that wouldn't happen. His mates were too fast, too used to being chased and running. They had outrun the Beast of Bodmin Moor today; a few silly guards should be no problem.
Down, down, down, the tunnel wound. John hoped there were no forks in the tunnel, because if there were he might never find his way back to the surface. The air seemed to get thicker with dirt and dust the further along he went. John reckoned he was probably the first person to come this way in centuries. It was hard to breathe in here. What air there was was becoming colder; a chill wind swept through the tunnel. John was suddenly grateful for his poor eyesight; there was a certain feel to the tunnel that didn't make him very eager to know what it looked like.
The chill wind seemed to be growing stronger. Dirt whipped into John's face, but he pressed on. He wrapped his suit chaqueta tighter around him. But the cold seemed to be seeping inside him, down to his very core. It felt almost unnatural, the way it penetrated. John shivered, glad no one was around to see that. o was he? He hadn't wanted to be in here alone... he wished his mates could have come with him....
Another gust of dusty air. How far had he come now? Miles and miles underground, and he hadn't seen a sign of any special object yet. Who knew how far this tunnel led? How far would he have to walk, all alone? What were his mates doing, up aboveground where they could see everything perfectly? John wrapped his arms round himself as, unbidden, a great wave of loneliness washed over him.
Maybe his mates had got tired of waiting for him aboveground, and had gone on to do their own thing. Maybe when he got up to the surface again, they would be gone. That was if he ever got back to the surface... maybe he would just be stuck down here forever, and no one would care. Another chill wind whispered through the tunnel, and a sudden feeling of abandonment came to registrarse the feeling of loneliness that had taken hold of John. Shivering, it seemed to him that there was no one in the world waiting for him aboveground, no one who wanted him to come back.
So maybe he should just stay down here forever, o else give up, go back now, and let the Beast have his soul. It would be just as well. Who else would want it?
And then, just as John was about to sink into despair, a sudden vision crossed his mind, in answer to his question. A memory he had lived a hundred times, the image of girls chasing him through the streets, determined to catch up to him, to just touch him before he got away. They would want his soul, if he offered it. And as that thought came to John, a small part of him felt loved, and he wondered what those fans would think of him if they could see him like this. It seemed to John that he had been actuación soft.
Well, John thought, he wasn't going to let these thoughts bother him anymore. And with that, he gave a bright, brilliant smile, just the way he did all the time when he wasn't wandering through old, abandoned tunnels looking for objects to defeat dangerous Beasts.
And the minuto John smiled, it was as if the air had become suddenly warmer, perhaps clearer, too. The winds were still there, but now they seemed calm and comforting, and they almost seemed to speak to John as they gently blew around him... "That's the true you.... the true you...." The air began to brighten, without any visible fuente of light, not that that meant much since John still couldn't see anything. But there, on one of the walls, was something long and silver and shiny, and as John looked at it, he knew it had to be special. Because he could see this object perfectly.
It was a beautiful silver sword. It had a long, slender blade, and a delicate hilt decorated tastefully with clear blue gems. The sword shone cheerfully - perhaps it was the sudden fuente of light?
Normally, John hated weapons. But this did not feel like a normal weapon. He knew what he had to do, and he stepped adelante, hacia adelante and grabbed the hilt. Instantly, there was a rush of warmth in John's fingers, and all of those anterior feelings of being unloved were swept away, replaced por a very definite thought that he was the luckiest man on earth. John smiled, and the Sword of Truth glowed brighter, just as though it had been waiting there all those years for him.
As the sword's glow grew brighter, what John could make out of the old, dusty tunnel walls seemed to fade from view, and he felt cool, fresh air on his face - not air like the cruel winds of the tunnel, but real air. Some of that glow was real sunlight... and as John noticed this, the sword's glow faded again, and he realized he was standing outside the bank.
"Oh, there tu are, John," dicho a voice behind him. "You took your time about coming; siguiente time bring us along."
John turned round to his mates, who were standing there trying not to look like they'd been worried, although as John gripped the sword, it was almost like a voice whispered in his ear that they really had been. And that same voice told John how lucky he was to have friends like that, and he got a sudden irrational urge to tell them how much they meant to him. John suppressed that urge very quickly. This was the Sword of Truth, not the Sword of Softness.
"You got it, then?" George noted.
John smiled, just as though there had been nothing in those tunnels to disturb him. "We won't have to look through all them legends about swords now."
Paul wanted to hold it. "It's hot," he remarked in surprise, as John handed it over. Then, "John - I was the one who hid all of your shoes and replaced them with Ringo's last week." Paul stared at the sword in surprise; clearly he hadn't planned on saying that.
John laughed. "I'd figured that one out already, Paul."
"Does the Sword of Truth always make tu tell the truth when tu hold it?" George asked with interest.
"Maybe we can use it to make the Beast tell us where he put all them souls he took," suggested Ringo with a smile.
John smiled back at him before answering George. "It's gone easy on me so far."
"Then tu have it back." Paul gave the sword to John, who felt a pleasing warmth under his fingers as the magical object returned to him. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, wondering what to do with it - this was well past the days when men went around carrying swords, after all - and then stuck in in his cinturón, correa where it sat looking very elegant and dapper.
One down, four to go.
Perhaps it was better that his mates hadn't made it in, then, since the total darkness would be más of a problem for them. Still, John did wish they could have come along. He would have preferred that to doing this alone. John hoped the guards hadn't arrested them o anything. No, he told himself, that wouldn't happen. His mates were too fast, too used to being chased and running. They had outrun the Beast of Bodmin Moor today; a few silly guards should be no problem.
Down, down, down, the tunnel wound. John hoped there were no forks in the tunnel, because if there were he might never find his way back to the surface. The air seemed to get thicker with dirt and dust the further along he went. John reckoned he was probably the first person to come this way in centuries. It was hard to breathe in here. What air there was was becoming colder; a chill wind swept through the tunnel. John was suddenly grateful for his poor eyesight; there was a certain feel to the tunnel that didn't make him very eager to know what it looked like.
The chill wind seemed to be growing stronger. Dirt whipped into John's face, but he pressed on. He wrapped his suit chaqueta tighter around him. But the cold seemed to be seeping inside him, down to his very core. It felt almost unnatural, the way it penetrated. John shivered, glad no one was around to see that. o was he? He hadn't wanted to be in here alone... he wished his mates could have come with him....
Another gust of dusty air. How far had he come now? Miles and miles underground, and he hadn't seen a sign of any special object yet. Who knew how far this tunnel led? How far would he have to walk, all alone? What were his mates doing, up aboveground where they could see everything perfectly? John wrapped his arms round himself as, unbidden, a great wave of loneliness washed over him.
Maybe his mates had got tired of waiting for him aboveground, and had gone on to do their own thing. Maybe when he got up to the surface again, they would be gone. That was if he ever got back to the surface... maybe he would just be stuck down here forever, and no one would care. Another chill wind whispered through the tunnel, and a sudden feeling of abandonment came to registrarse the feeling of loneliness that had taken hold of John. Shivering, it seemed to him that there was no one in the world waiting for him aboveground, no one who wanted him to come back.
So maybe he should just stay down here forever, o else give up, go back now, and let the Beast have his soul. It would be just as well. Who else would want it?
And then, just as John was about to sink into despair, a sudden vision crossed his mind, in answer to his question. A memory he had lived a hundred times, the image of girls chasing him through the streets, determined to catch up to him, to just touch him before he got away. They would want his soul, if he offered it. And as that thought came to John, a small part of him felt loved, and he wondered what those fans would think of him if they could see him like this. It seemed to John that he had been actuación soft.
Well, John thought, he wasn't going to let these thoughts bother him anymore. And with that, he gave a bright, brilliant smile, just the way he did all the time when he wasn't wandering through old, abandoned tunnels looking for objects to defeat dangerous Beasts.
And the minuto John smiled, it was as if the air had become suddenly warmer, perhaps clearer, too. The winds were still there, but now they seemed calm and comforting, and they almost seemed to speak to John as they gently blew around him... "That's the true you.... the true you...." The air began to brighten, without any visible fuente of light, not that that meant much since John still couldn't see anything. But there, on one of the walls, was something long and silver and shiny, and as John looked at it, he knew it had to be special. Because he could see this object perfectly.
It was a beautiful silver sword. It had a long, slender blade, and a delicate hilt decorated tastefully with clear blue gems. The sword shone cheerfully - perhaps it was the sudden fuente of light?
Normally, John hated weapons. But this did not feel like a normal weapon. He knew what he had to do, and he stepped adelante, hacia adelante and grabbed the hilt. Instantly, there was a rush of warmth in John's fingers, and all of those anterior feelings of being unloved were swept away, replaced por a very definite thought that he was the luckiest man on earth. John smiled, and the Sword of Truth glowed brighter, just as though it had been waiting there all those years for him.
As the sword's glow grew brighter, what John could make out of the old, dusty tunnel walls seemed to fade from view, and he felt cool, fresh air on his face - not air like the cruel winds of the tunnel, but real air. Some of that glow was real sunlight... and as John noticed this, the sword's glow faded again, and he realized he was standing outside the bank.
"Oh, there tu are, John," dicho a voice behind him. "You took your time about coming; siguiente time bring us along."
John turned round to his mates, who were standing there trying not to look like they'd been worried, although as John gripped the sword, it was almost like a voice whispered in his ear that they really had been. And that same voice told John how lucky he was to have friends like that, and he got a sudden irrational urge to tell them how much they meant to him. John suppressed that urge very quickly. This was the Sword of Truth, not the Sword of Softness.
"You got it, then?" George noted.
John smiled, just as though there had been nothing in those tunnels to disturb him. "We won't have to look through all them legends about swords now."
Paul wanted to hold it. "It's hot," he remarked in surprise, as John handed it over. Then, "John - I was the one who hid all of your shoes and replaced them with Ringo's last week." Paul stared at the sword in surprise; clearly he hadn't planned on saying that.
John laughed. "I'd figured that one out already, Paul."
"Does the Sword of Truth always make tu tell the truth when tu hold it?" George asked with interest.
"Maybe we can use it to make the Beast tell us where he put all them souls he took," suggested Ringo with a smile.
John smiled back at him before answering George. "It's gone easy on me so far."
"Then tu have it back." Paul gave the sword to John, who felt a pleasing warmth under his fingers as the magical object returned to him. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, wondering what to do with it - this was well past the days when men went around carrying swords, after all - and then stuck in in his cinturón, correa where it sat looking very elegant and dapper.
One down, four to go.
