by P. D. Kalnay
“Because they outlive the enchanter?”
“Yes, and because there is no telling where they’ll end up, or… who will make use of them.”
***
Confident from my first round of Q and A with my grandmother, I broke with long standing tradition—and went looking for her. It was still hours till dinner, and I was shower-fresh and ready for answers. I found my grandmother standing in the little sitting room. It looked as though she’d arrived just ahead of me.
“Did you have another question?” she asked.
“Yeah, you said you’d answer them right?”
“Within reason.”
“I wanted to ask a more personal question… about you.”
Gran gave me an appraising look.
“I will answer three such questions.” There was a silent ever attached to the end of her statement.
“Three?”
“Call me old-fashioned.”
I had closer to a million questions, so I took a moment to decide on the three I really wanted the answers to. After a couple of years of wondering about things, it wasn’t that hard to decide.
“Who are you? What’s the deal with this house?” I paused and then finished with, “And why did you come to live in this world?”
That should do it, I thought.
“My name is Mabalain Stormborn Aerantial,” she said. “I’m the daughter of Baketlain Aerantial and Vierlain Aerantial. For a time, I was a queen and the ruler of my House. Those days are little more than a distant memory. Now, I’m the Warden of one of the three portals connecting the first and seventh worlds.”
“Why aren’t you a queen anymore?”
“The third answer will explain the why of that. This house is just a house. It is where I live and acts as a waypoint for those who travel through the portal in the basement. The house also serves to disguise the location of the portal, and the master-wards underneath it, which guard the property, preventing intrusion.”
“So everybody who comes here is from the First World?”
“No, but the vast majority are. I didn’t know Mr. Ryan was—when he first arrived. Occasionally, a person from this world with an affinity for magic is drawn here, but that’s a rare occurrence. Travellers from other worlds, who can pay the toll, sometimes pass through. That is equally rare.”
I was distracted for a second, remembering all the guests who’d come through Glastonbury Manor. It was impossible to guess who fell into which category. I felt sure Gran wouldn’t provide that information. She interrupted my thoughts.
“The last answer is longer, and will require background information you may lack. Did Ivy tell you of the times of darkness before the First World came into being?”
“No.”
Gran had Ms. Mopat bring her a cup of tea and then settled herself on her chair.
“In the beginning, there was darkness. From that darkness sprang great titans. They were beings of immeasurable power and unfathomable thought. No records exist, and none of those great titans remain to tell the truth of the Beginning.” She paused. “There is an exception perhaps, but I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“How long ago are we talking?” I asked.
“No number can be affixed to years since the first ones woke. Time isn’t the constant thing you might imagine, and its nature has changed more than once since then. Suffice to say, it was a very long time ago. Many of these mighty beings existed in the primordial universe, but only three of the First Ones are remembered by name. The great dragon—Morantal, Delanor the Smith, and–”
“And?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in naming him here, but refrain from doing so on the First World. The third original titan to survive, until the time when the first stories were told, was Halros, more commonly known as The Destroyer.”
“He’s the bad guy?” I asked. I figured you didn’t get a handle like ‘The Destroyer’ without being the bad guy.
“I can’t say if any of the titans were good or bad. They were alien, vast, and beyond comprehension. Their motivations, and purposes, are, I suspect, things we could never understand. The tangible results of their actions are another matter.”
“So, why was this Halros guy called The Destroyer?”
“He destroyed most of his fellow titans, and he attempted to destroy the First World and the World Tree itself. He was stopped only by the combined might of Morantal and Delanor, along with aid from a coalition of the original titans’ progeny. Together, they bound Halros and imprisoned him high above the Third World. As you have learned, travel up the Tree strips away the magic from a being. This was also true for Halros.”
“Why didn’t they take him to a higher world? Wouldn’t that have made him even weaker?”
Gran nodded.
“Yes, but only three of the worlds existed when this occurred. At the time, the Third World was still devoid of life. Two guardians were left to mind Halros in his prison, and presumably… they still do.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“If The Destroyer had escaped his cage, we’d all know,” Gran said. She took a long sip of her tea. “Even for such a being, he’s been imprisoned for a very long time. Far longer than this world has existed.”
“Nobody goes to check on the prison? Just to be sure?”
That didn’t seem prudent.
“For countless eaons, one or another of the titans’ progeny, the lesser titans if you will, would travel to the Third World to check. Most have now passed beyond life, and those who they’d entrusted with the task have been unable to do so for almost five thousand years.”
“Why?”
“That’s how long ago the portals to the Third World stopped functioning.”
“And nobody’s worried about that?”
This stuff was new to me, but that seemed like a big deal.
“Yes, there are some of us who are quite worried about that.” Gran gave me a flat, unreadable look. “Which brings me to the answer to your third question. What I tell you should not be repeated.”
She stared at me until I nodded.
“I came to this world to find the Dragon Lord, and to expedite his return to the First World. When the portals to the Third World closed, the Council of Guardians, those lesser beings entrusted with monitoring and maintaining Halros’s Cage, knew that the Tree, and all of existence, were in danger. The oldest of the Council was a powerful Oracle. She foresaw the shadow of a great doom, but that shadow was dim and one of many possible futures. When the Dragon Lord was banished from the First World—that doom became a certainty. The council was uncertain how Janik was tied to the end of all things, but they knew that without him, the Doom would come to pass.”
She took another sip of her tea before continuing.
“The Council has always consisted of nine, carefully chosen members. I was the youngest member, and newly chosen, when the decision to seek the Dragon Lord was made. Along with four others, I travelled up the Tree to search for Janik. None could travel to the Third World. We could only hope that he would be reborn on one of the remaining five. I became the Warden of this portal, allowing me to accomplish the search, while maintaining a connection to the First World.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I’ve lived here for nine centuries,” Gran said. “This house replaced the small cottage that stood here until 1826. My proximity to the portal, and role as its guardian, grant me longer life, and a small measure of my power, even in this world.”
“And now you’ve found Janik? I mean Mr. Ryan. Do you have any idea how to send him back?”
“No. Nor is this the first time he has been found. Twice before, on other worlds, the Dragon Lord was located by my brethren. Neither time did he remember who he was, and each time… he died before a means to end his banishment could be found.”
“So you’re hoping the third time is the charm?”
“You’ll discover that on the First World that’s more than an expression.” G
ran smiled. “New factors are in play, which make his return more promising than before. He has his sword, and there’s…”
“What?”
“You, Jack. Now, we have you.”
I didn’t think I liked the way she said that.
“Well, no pressure, right? I just have to end his banishment and hopefully stop the universe from being destroyed?”
“Exactly.”
Awesome.
Having my questions answered was less satisfying than I’d expected.
Chapter 9 – Waking Nightmares
Mr. Smith returned a few weeks into the summer, just as he’d done for my first two summers at Glastonbury Manor. I found him at the dinner table with Mr. Ryan and Gran. Mr. Smith looked a little older, which was strange, only in that he’d never appeared to age at all, between his previous visits. I noted new wrinkles and worry lines. I didn’t usually notice that kind of thing, but the changes were obvious. No one had taken more than a bite of their food yet. It was clear they’d sat down moments before I arrived. The smile Mr. Smith gave me seemed strained, and it didn’t touch his eyes. Not his usual smile at all.
“Hi, Mr. Smith,” I said, taking the last chair.
“Hello, Jack.”
His voice was the same.
“You back to shoe the race horses again?”
Mr. Smith nodded.
“Same deal, every year,” he said.
“How long have you been doing it?” I asked.
“Too long to think about,” he said. “How was your school year?”
“Too long to think about.”
That got a brief chuckle.
“Where’s young Ivy?” Mr. Smith asked Gran.
“She won’t be staying with us this summer,” Gran said. She offered no further explanation.
“Ah, that’s too bad.” He turned back to me. “Did you finish your knife?”
“Yeah, before the end of the summer.”
“How did it turn out?”
“Not exactly how I expected.”
That was true enough.
“Things don’t always turn out how you expect,” Mr. Smith said.
“True,” Mr. Ryan interjected. “I noticed you got a new truck.”
That led the conversation away from trickier topics, like my enchanted knife and Ivy. I didn’t know what category of visitor Mr. Smith fell into; although I suspected he was from the First World. I’d noted his vague resemblance to my father the first time we’d met. He was also a blacksmith. My money was on Petrathen. I stayed quiet until dinner was almost over.
“You interested in forging something new?” Mr. Smith asked me.
I looked up from my apple crumble.
“I hurt my hands,” I said. “I’m taking a break from making things.”
“What happened?”
Mr. Smith sounded genuinely interested for the first time all evening.
“I burned them,” I said. I caught a warning glance from my Gran. “On a hot pot.”
The people at school had bought that story, but it still sounded sketchy when heard it leave my mouth.
“How bad are they?” Mr. Smith asked.
“It hurts a bit to move them, and a lot to hold anything. Swinging a hammer is out.”
“That’s too bad, Jack. I’m sure they’ll heal up OK.”
Dessert finished in awkward silence.
***
I spent my evening reading. After a long session that ended when the pages got too blurry to see, I turned in for the night. My sleep was deep and dreamless. I woke suddenly. Mr. Smith’s hands were around my throat. He was squeezing for all he was worth. The room was bright with moonlight, and even with the light off, I could make out his face clearly. He looked more distraught than enraged, but regardless… he was choking me to death. I grabbed a wrist with each hand and tried to pull his arms apart, to get a breath of air into my lungs. It was hopeless. Mr. Smith was old, but he was stronger than me. I was running out of oxygen, and excess blood was collecting in my brain. Having been choked unconscious before, sparring with Mr. Ryan, I knew I’d be out cold in a few seconds. The difference was—this time—I wouldn’t wake up.
I wish I could tell you that I discovered some inner strength and tore Mr. Smith’s gnarled hands from my throat. That I found unknown fortitude and saved myself… that wasn’t what happened. Suddenly, Mr. Smith’s hands released my throat. Then his wrists were torn from my grip as he was pulled up and away at incredible speed. In the moonlight, I saw his eyes go wide as he flew from my bedside. Stars swam in my eyes. Before they cleared, I heard Mr. Smith’s screams, the sound of antique furniture being destroyed, and low vicious snarls. It was worse when my vision returned.
Mr. Smith fought a desperate battle with a thing of nightmares. The black thing towered over him. It was so dark, it was hard for me to make out details. Glowing green eyes, long claws, and a lashing tail made occasional appearances in the moonlight. Mr. Smith fought desperately. I’m certain of that. He lasted about a minute before the thing on top of him let out howl of victory. I don’t know if blood actually curdles. Mine felt pretty curdled. I pushed myself back against the headboard. Then my grandmother opened the door. She stood in her nightgown, framed by impossibly bright hallway lights.
“Stop making such a racket, and go clean yourself up,” she said.
The dark creature began to shrink. Because of the dim light and my partial, temporary blindness from the hallway light, I didn’t get a good look at exactly how that worked. Then my grandmother’s big black cat walked out the door, around her legs, and disappeared down the hallway. I had a dozen flashbacks of petting the cat, of it purring in my lap, and sleeping curled up beside me on my bed. Then I threw up in my mouth.
“Are you hurt?” Gran asked.
I swallowed down the bile.
“No.” I rubbed my throat. “Not seriously. I will have some bruises.”
She reached in and clicked on my bedroom lights. Mr. Ryan arrived from down the hall.
“What’s going on?” he asked, before he got a look at my room.
The dresser was crushed to kindling. Socks, underwear, and t-shirts lay scattered amongst the bits of wood. My knife and the second half-ring were atop some of the wreckage in one corner of the room. The closet doors were likewise smashed in, and the desk was broken in half. My laptop had obviously booted-up for the very last time. Covering all of that, and my bed, and me… was Mr. Smith’s blood. The room looked like a modern art project that had been created with a sledge hammer and buckets of red paint. I wiped a few wet droplets from my cheek, and once again threw up in my mouth. I tried to swallow it down. When I saw what was left of Mr. Smith at the foot of my bed—that became impossible. Instead, I leaned over the side, and added my own contribution to the horrific scene. Amid my vomiting, Mr. Ryan spoke.
“I don’t think he’s dead yet.”
“Maybe he can still answer a question or two,” Gran said calmly.
I wiped my mouth on a pajama sleeve, steeled myself, and joined them at the foot of the bed. Mr. Ryan was turning over what was left of Mr. Smith. The old blacksmith looked like he’d fought a giant lawnmower… and lost. His front was as horribly sliced-up as his back, but somehow his face had mostly remained unscathed. Dark brown eyes looked up at the three of us.
“Sorry about that, Jack,” he said.
Blood bubbled out with the words, making him difficult to understand.
“Why?” Gran asked. “Why, after so many years?”
“Sometimes…” Mr. Smith’s eyes closed again. I thought he was dead, but then he finished with, “you don’t have a choice.”
“Now he’s dead,” Mr. Ryan said.
I rubbed my sore throat and looked down at Mr. Smith.
“He always seemed so nice…” I didn’t know what else to say.
“He had commitments,” Mr. Ryan said, “and I suspect, substantial debts to repay.”
He glanced at Gran, and she nodded.
“I still
can’t believe he tried to kill me.”
It was all like a bad dream.
“I’m not sure he did,” Mr. Ryan said, straightening up from the body.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “He wasn’t joking around.”
“If he was serious about it, he could have cut your throat while you slept. Quick and simple. Strangling you with his bare hands, when he obviously liked you… As he said, sometimes choices are taken away from us.”
“Suicide by Mopat?” Gran asked him softly.
“That would be my guess,” Mr. Ryan said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Jack, wash up and sleep in the next room tonight,” Gran said. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”
“Really discuss it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“OK.”
***
The body was gone, and Ms. Mopat was already scrubbing the blood from the floor, when I passed by on the way to my new room. She looked the same as ever, but now I had a whole new range of suspicions about her. I was tempted to just walk silently past, but decided to stop instead.
“Thanks,” I said.
She looked up from scrubbing the hardwood and glanced back at me. Then she nodded once before resuming her cleaning. Looking into her bright green eyes, I was instantly certain that my suspicions were all true. I didn’t fall back to sleep until hours after I heard the last sounds of cleaning come from next door.
***
I found Gran, reading in her sitting room, the next morning. She was sipping her tea, and appeared entirely unbothered by the carnage of the night before. She didn’t look up from her book when I came in.
“More questions, Jack?”
“Yeah, obviously,” I said.
Gran looked up from her book.
“I mean—if you don’t mind answering some,” I added hurriedly.
“What is it you wish to know?”
“What the heck your cat is, for a start. It was a lot bigger before you showed up.”
“That was the true form of the Mopat. Here, close to the gate, it can maintain that form for a short time.”
It didn’t need any more time, I thought.
“The Mopat? As in… Ms. Mopat?” I’d guessed that, but… holy crap!
