“Who did this?” they cried.
Bloodied and dirty, Hadrian appeared before them and said, “The Mandrake. I fought him. I could not defeat him. Yet I uncovered his identity, and now that I know his true nature, he means to destroy us all.”
“His identity?” they asked. “His true nature?”
“The Mandrake has lived among you for many years. He takes different forms, and one of them is that of a hummingbird. I believe you call him Potoweet.”
The small holes on the bodies matched the width of my beak. The culprit seemed clear. Enraged, a mob set out to destroy me, but I was too quick and my small size made it easy for me to hide. One would think I would have tried to explain, but I was always viewed differently in the Hutch. Everlasting life has a way of breeding suspicion and contempt.
“You are not safe here anymore,” Hadrian told the villagers. “The Mandrake is too fast, too clever, but I know of a place where we can be protected from him.”
He led the people to the blood sea, and while they were hesitant at first, they saw that the sanguine waters did not harm Hadrian, so they trusted their faith and they followed him below the surface. They lived there, within Oric’s secret fortress, for years, trusting in and serving Hadrian whilst fearing the Mandrake. To keep me out, he blocked my tunnels with stone. I am not the type of bird suited to swimming, so unless one of those tubes snatches me up and carries me there, I will never be able to enter that fortress again. And Hadrian will have those people forever under his spell. Occasionally, to show his commitment to their safety, he dispatches a noble hero to fight the Mandrake, and that noble hero almost always meets an ignoble end.
As will you, Mr. Cleary.
CHAPTER 6
The flutter of the bird’s wings added density to the air. Potoweet’s story was a convincing one, but Alistair knew that convincing doesn’t always mean true. He switched the sword to his left hand for a moment, wiped the sweat off his right palm, and switched it back.
“Why am I supposed to believe this?” he asked.
“You are not supposed to believe anything,” Potoweet said. “You have the choice to believe. As you had the choice to believe Hadrian. He is an adept manipulator, you do understand? He has usurped other worlds and will usurp more. His power grows so long as he has his loyal figments to protect him and wishful swimmers like you under his thumb. There is only one problem that remains. Me.”
Potoweet pivoted his body in the air and gave Alistair a full view of it. Sure enough, in the place where an ear might be, there was a blue mark in the shape of a horseshoe.
“You … you … are…” Alistair started to raise his sword.
“Precisely what you feared?” Potoweet asked. “I have no doubt that Hadrian told you about my embellishment. He hopes that you kill me. For if you kill me, then no one will ever know the truth again. I possess the true story, and it is in veracity that the real power lies, young man.”
“He sent others to fight the Mandrake, though,” Alistair said. “What happened to them?”
“They learned the truth from me,” Potoweet said. “So they attempted to swim back down to the fortress, only to be suffocated or eviscerated by one of the tentacles. Hadrian has modified those horrid appendages. Some are used for transportation. They stretch as far as gateways to other worlds. Some are used for spying. Should you see one poke out of the sky, be mindful. It is watching. Finally, some are used for murder. All are at his command.”
“So I’m doomed,” Alistair said as he raised his sword. “And no matter what you are, my best bet is still to kill you. Because then Hadrian will let me go where I want. He let Polly go where she wanted.”
“Oh joy!” Potoweet cheered. “You’ve met Polly. A rambunctious but resourceful girl. I am so glad she soldiers on.”
“You know her?”
“Indubitably,” Potoweet said. “Hadrian sent her to vanquish me once. She actually came the closest. She managed to capture me in her tight fist. She might have squeezed the life out of me, but I slipped away at the last moment.”
“Aha!” Alistair retorted. “But in your story you said that you had everlasting life.”
Potoweet twittered as if clucking his tongue. “Dear boy, dear boy, dear boy. This is where you are mistaken. Everlasting life is not the same as immortality. I will not die of old age or disease, but should someone choose to kill me, then I will cease to exist. The same goes for you. And for Hadrian and Polly. Creatures like us do not age, but that does not mean we are invincible. We are similar to rocks. We can sit for lifetimes unchanged, but a hammer can still render us into dust.”
The platform was about two stories off the ground. A fall from it wouldn’t necessarily kill Alistair, but it would certainly hurt him. He took a few steps away from the edge, and Potoweet moved with him. “How did Polly manage to get away from Hadrian?” Alistair asked. “If all the others died, what did she do to survive?”
“That I do not know,” Potoweet said. “A bargain, I suspect. That young lady is a schemer of the highest order.”
As Potoweet jagged through the air effortlessly, things started to come into focus for Alistair. Mahaloo, the women who spoke to Polly near the bonfire, the borrowed boots, the chase—was it all a setup? The way those people could move through the forest was remarkable, and that crazed woman should have easily caught Alistair. And yet she didn’t, because maybe she wasn’t meant to. Polly was a schemer, and a schemer could have easily rigged the whole thing, created a charade to gain Alistair’s trust, to lure him into Hadrian’s net, where he could be used as a bargaining chip.
“What’s the Ambit of Ciphers?” Alistair asked.
Potoweet paused. “Please do not say that this is where our Polly now resides.”
Alistair nodded.
“Oh my goodness,” Potoweet said. “I have heard tell of this place. It is a realm of vengeful and jealous things. Frightening, frightening things.”
“The boy named Oric you told me about,” Alistair said. “Could he be there?”
Potoweet’s head wiggled back and forth as fast as his wings flapped, and Alistair couldn’t tell if this was a forceful denial or just a hummingbird’s gesture of uncertainty. “The inhabitants of the Ambit of Ciphers are creations, and Oric was not a creation. He was a creator. Something else happened to Oric. He is somewhere else.”
“I’m not so sure,” Alistair said. “Polly said she was looking for someone, just like I’m looking for someone, and the Ambit of Ciphers is the place she chose to look. It’s where I plan to look as well.”
“Unwise, but you seem to have little interest in wisdom,” Potoweet said as he zipped back and forth in the air like a UFO in some old science-fiction movie. There was no way Alistair could catch him or strike him with his sword, no way to shut him up. He was far too quick.
“I’m going back to Hadrian,” Alistair said, “and I’m going to make a deal. That is the wise thing to do.”
“That is the risky thing to do,” Potoweet said.
“Well, you haven’t provided any other solution,” Alistair said.
“True enough,” Potoweet said. “But I will provide you with the following advice. Never think that you are anything more than what you are … or anything less.”
It hardly felt like advice to Alistair, but still he said, “Thank you.”
Potoweet responded, “You are most welcome. For now I bid you good luck. And Godspeed.”
The flutter was there and then it wasn’t, and within seconds the bird was nothing but a speck, retreating into the distance. Alistair was alone again. He sat down cross-legged on the platform. He looked up into the sky.
1984
Fiona Loomis, back home, seven years old, in a swimsuit, her hair even blacker when drenched in water. It was blazing hot, and Keri had set up a Slip’N Slide in the yard, and while she was in the house fetching watermelon, Alistair and Fiona traded turns.
“I want a Slip’N Slide that’s a mile long!” Alistair hollered as
he ran, jumped, and skidded over the wet yellow plastic.
“I can make one a million miles long!” Fiona hollered back as she followed in his wake—leaping, sliding, almost kicking Alistair, who had to roll out of her way.
They lay there for a moment—Alistair in the grass, Fiona on the plastic—and they looked up at the clouds. Not puffy clouds, wispy ones, the shape of cotton pulled thin. There were no puppies or dragons to imagine, but they were nice clouds all the same. Inside, a phone rang, and seconds later Keri was at the window, watermelon juice running down the front of her swimsuit.
“Fiona,” she called out. “That was your mom. She says it’s time to come home.”
“Tell her I want to stay,” Fiona replied, not looking away from the clouds.
“Already hung up,” Keri replied as she dabbed her chin with the shoulder strap of her swimsuit. “You can call her and tell her yourself.”
Fiona harrumphed, rolled over, and looked at Alistair. “If you could do magic, what magic would you do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Fly, I guess.”
She rolled back over and looked at the sky. “Flying gets old. Trust me. Freezing time. That’s the best magic. Know what I mean? Stop everything so you can keep doing what you want. You don’t ever have to go home if you can freeze time.”
It was a good point. Alistair could see the appeal of freezing time, of continuing to play, of cherishing a sun that never sets. And yet, he didn’t want that now. He wanted to go inside.
He stood up and wiped grass from his legs. “Later, gator,” he said.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Inside. Don’t you have to go home?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m freezing time. I don’t have to go anywhere.”
“I have to pee,” Alistair admitted, his hand fidgeting, clawing at his thigh.
“Pee on a tree,” she said. “Time is frozen. No one will see you.”
“Later, gator,” Alistair said again, because even if time was frozen, he was not settling for a tree. He waved over his shoulder as he waddled to the house.
A little bit later, with a slice of watermelon in hand, Alistair joined Keri at the window that looked out into the backyard. Fiona rolled off the Slip’N Slide, stood, and walked across the grass, water streaming from her hair like heavy rain out of a gutter.
“She lay there for, like, five minutes,” Keri said. “Looking up. Not even moving.”
“She’s weird,” Alistair said as he took a bite of the watermelon.
“You can say that again.”
He swallowed. “She’s weird.”
Keri chuckled. “Mom and Dad don’t hang out with her parents anymore,” she said. “Why do you still hang out with her?”
Alistair shrugged in response. “Because she comes over.”
By that point, Fiona was gone, beyond their yard and line of sight. Keri turned away from the window. “There’s a mouse in the attic that plays the violin,” she said. “If you find it and kill it, I’ll let you have my allowance.”
CHAPTER 7
“I’ll make a deal with you, Hadrian!” Alistair cried into the cloudless sky. The sky was a hard blue. No cracks, nothing to indicate that it didn’t go on forever. Still, Alistair suspected there were edges to it; if not roofs and walls, then boundaries of some sort. “Whatever Polly promised you,” he yelled, “I’ll give you the same! I need to find someone. I need to go home!”
No response. A breeze, lilac-tinged and confident, caused his arm hairs to echo the dance of the grass. Birdsong skipped back and forth, calls and responses. Time did its thing.
The view of the Hutch from the platform sparked Alistair’s imagination. He tried to picture it bustling with men, women, and children, the same ones who swarmed the pedestal in the underground fortress and chanted “New blood! New blood!” Could they really be the descendants of peaceful and friendly folks? Could they have been so easily corrupted by lies and fear? How could he know for sure, and why should he even care, because what was there to do, really?
He was stuck. Potoweet was right. He was a fool, and this was a fool’s errand.
He closed his eyes. It had all come at him so fast. Ever since he touched that floating cylinder of water in Fiona’s basement, ever since the ash swirled around him and he plunged into the rainbow river, ever since he washed up in Mahaloo and met Polly and ran and swam and floundered in Hadrian’s net, ever since he came face-to-face with a storytelling hummingbird, there had been no time to think things over. Now he had time, nothing but it.
The urge to cry returned, because Fiona had told him something else. No matter how long Alistair stayed in Aquavania, not a second would pass back home. Back home, time was frozen, and Kyle was lying dead, or dying, with a bullet wound to his stomach. Yes, it was an accident, but Alistair couldn’t kid himself any longer. That bullet was meant for someone. It was meant for Charlie, to stop him from … being who he was, from … being whatever it was he had become.
The longer Alistair stayed in Aquavania, the longer he would have to worry about what might have happened to Kyle, about what was going to happen to Kyle. The longer he stayed in Aquavania, the longer that wound stayed fresh and open, a reminder of all of Alistair’s mistakes.
He threw the sword to the side, and it clanged against the platform and slid off the edge. “No no no no no…” he mumbled, balling up his fists and pressing them against his eyes.
His blood couldn’t keep up with his heart. His hands went numb. He tried to pull in a deep breath, but instead of air, something solid entered his mouth.
Good God!
It squirmed and wiggled, tickling his uvula. Rather than hack or gag, Alistair gulped, and that something became lodged in his windpipe. It cut off all of his oxygen. Choking, he fell to his back, and his eyes turned to the sky long enough to see a tentacle descending to scoop him up and suck him away.
* * *
“New blood! New blood! New blood!”
The chant built into a crescendo as the tentacle spat Alistair onto the net, back in the underground fortress where Hadrian reigned. The trip through the fleshy tube took about a minute, but Alistair still hadn’t dislodged the blockage in his throat. As the net lowered him onto the pedestal, he pounded his own back, trying to knock loose the clog.
“Don’t go so hard on yourself,” Hadrian said, chuckling as he rocked on his swing. “You surrendered faster than most, but that doesn’t make you a coward.”
The crowd snickered as Alistair—now on his knees, doubled over—winced and continued to strike himself between the shoulder blades. It was useless. With his arm twisted the way it was, he couldn’t produce adequate force.
“So you’d like an arrangement similar to the one I made with Polly?” Hadrian went on. “I suspect you have no idea what that entails?”
Alistair couldn’t have responded if he wanted to. His eyes watered; his head was a squeezed lemon. He placed his hands down and arched his back, tried to turn himself into a cat coughing out a hairball.
“I exercised trust and compassion with Polly,” Hadrian continued. “You must understand that I am the only known swimmer who controls a gateway to the Ambit of Ciphers, and Polly desperately wanted to travel there. So she paid her passage by delivering us ten swimmers to fight the Mandrake. The first nine were unsuccessful. You, young sir, are number ten. Would you like to agree to the same bargain?”
His chest heaving, Alistair tried to cough, but all that came out was a throaty rattle. The crowd responded with a fresh chant of “New blood! New blood! New blood!”
“What ails you, boy?” Hadrian said, planting his feet and stopping the swing. “Did you eat something foul up there in the Hutch? Please do not regurgitate on our pedestal. We’ve only just had it cleaned.”
This is it, Alistair thought. I’m going to die right here, choke to death without ever fighting back, without ever knowing squat about Fiona’s fate. It felt like more than a punishment. It felt like being
ridiculed. With his last bit of strength, Alistair rose to his feet and, instead of coughing, he tried to swallow. He tipped his head back.
“Here’s the difference between you and Polly,” Hadrian remarked. “She had wit and spark. She knew that making a deal means jousting with words. You, on the other hand, are a complete and absolute bore. Better suited to the froth of the sea.”
Hadrian reached up to grab the red rope, the one that dispatched the toothed tentacle.
“New blood! New blood! New blood!” went the crowd.
And Alistair, head still tipped back, neck straight, opened his mouth. Out flew a bird.
Potoweet shot up from the boy’s throat like a cork from a champagne bottle. As soon as he reached the height of Hadrian’s eyes, Potoweet stopped midair and hovered, wings blurring. Alistair gasped for breath as his body finally surfaced from the depths of suffocation.
“Greetings, Hadrian,” Potoweet said.
“Oh. Sweet. Merciful. Heavens,” Hadrian replied.
“And so it is that we find ourselves entangled once again,” Potoweet said.
The crowd fell silent. The only sound was Alistair’s thick breaths. Haw, huh. Haw, huh. Hawwww, huhhhh. Until Hadrian screamed.
“Mandrake!”
That’s when Potoweet unfolded and expanded. His wings fanned. His feathers flared. His body ballooned, and his legs sprouted. His beak twisted until it wasn’t a beak anymore. It was a horn, and floating in the air there was now a creature both beautiful and terrible, a monster with a face like a bird’s face, but with that horn instead of a beak, and with a mouth like a serpent’s mouth that curled up around the sides of his head. He had wings like a peacock’s wings, a body like a man’s body, but with two muscular and furry legs that were part equine, part lupine. This was the Mandrake, and he advertised his delight with a mad shriek.
Panic. The crowd began to scream and push and trample and clog the exit with their flailing bodies. The Mandrake wasted no time. He lunged through the air at Hadrian, and Hadrian tried to dodge but wasn’t fast enough. The Mandrake’s twisted horn pierced the scale mail that protected Hadrian’s body and sank into the boy’s chest.
The Whisper Page 7
