Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series

by John Stockmyer

Until night fell everywhere upon the land.

  Though endlessly and forever fascinating, she had seen it all before. The men. The center of molten, mother earth. The crystal eye of day and night. The shell of encompassing father sky with its colored bands.

  What did it mean? She did not know, except that she was certain this was her world.

  Still looking into the darkening crystal's depth, she saw a shift of image ... saw ... the cave.

  That, she had also witnessed. The cave and the long, long tunnel leading to the cave. Where? Did she remember the tunnel mouth as being in the band of Malachite? In the mountains on the up-light side?

  The picture quavering like calm water stirred with fingertips, she was in another place. A place of stony walls and soldiers and the ... girl. The present place.

  All were striving to bring back the Mage -- who, though mighty, was no Mage.

  Zwicia concentrated, attempting to see if the man would come again. Tried to tease a vision of the future as she sometimes could -- a difficult and dangerous thing to do.

  Others, desiring a glimpse of their own afterwards, paid Zwicia silvers to show the path ahead. But it was not wise. In the future, everyone was old. In the future, everyone was dead.

  No one wanted to be old and dead.

  Yet now, she tried to see ahead. A little ways. Though it made her tremble!

  Mumbling a chant to protect her from the full might of the crystal's power, the Weird concentrated .....

  There!

  A pale glow. Always that glow when seeing forward, like the bright haze upon the ground at up-light; like seeing through a shining mist of waterfalls.

  Peering within the fog-bright of the disk, what did she see? Faint. ... Faint. .......

  Was it a ... machine? Was it a machine, coming to this very place? A strangeness she had never seen before.

  Carried by someone she could not see; because he was in shadow.

  Still carrying his machine, he turned, Zwicia recognizing the Mage -- who was no Mage.

  Zwicia looked closer, mumbling the chant louder against the evil of foreknowledge.

  Yes. It was the man.

  In a room, she thought, in this rocky ... bastion.

  Alone.

  The man was all alone.

  With his machine.

  Looking ... here ... and there ... a smile upon his face.

  Suddenly, the disk turned dark.

  Zwicia was afraid! Afraid of being in the dark, the dark caused by the combined sorcery of Crystal-Mages!

  Calming herself with the knowledge that this was not the real time, she wondered where she was? ... In a band? In the ... dark of Azare's band?

  Azare, blue in the long ago, now kept dark with crystal-magic. Dark with Evil!

  Ahead ... she sensed ... people. She sensed ... white.

  She did not so much see the people as know that they were there, so many hearts, beating to one purpose.

  Digging ... digging in the ground. Deeper. Deeper. Deep. Deep. Deep. Deep. Deep. Deep. .........

  With a straining of the will, Zwicia wrenched herself free from that crystal-trap. Returned from spinning down and down, like the people digging in the pit. Deeper. Deeper .....

  Above all, she must be on her guard against the crystal's traps, mind-loops that could spin the watcher around and down a dizzying vortex to an enchanted place were, even a Weird, could not escape.

  This time, she quickly dragged herself from the sucking snare before it was too late.

  Quaking, as from a height, she saw herself cowering in the dark of a future time.

  Of a sudden, rays of light pierced the black of a blinded night! One. Two rays shot toward her, but high above the tops of trees that, now that she could see them, were all about.

  Forked shafts of jagged white arched down, crackling as they hit the ground. Nearer. NEARER!! Crashing! Crashing as the flares of light fell near!

  Fell to strike ... the trees ... gray trees, black, withered trees, trees with no leaves or life. A ghost forest surrounded her, the jagged spears striking its old, dead trees, the trees splitting, the shattered trunks striking the ground with deep report; dead limbs cracking off as the half-trunks buried themselves into soft, black earth.

  Zwicia was afraid!

  Muttering her most sacred chant, she bent to the disk, seeing ... others ... with her on the path.

  Did she see the Mage who was no Mage? And the ... girl?

  Lxlop!

  She saw the deadly creatures all around her! .......

  Without warning, they were gone. She was safe.

  Beyond the dark, did she see ... light? A sliver beam of vertical light above the dead trees? Light ... from the pit .....?

  She was unsure.

  There was a noise. Beside her in the room. In the present. A noise that was the sound of her name spoken.

  "Zwicia."

  Too far away. Too far away to drown out the crystal-images that she saw.

  "Zwicia."

  Again, the noise.

  There was another visualization, now. Growing in the disk.

  The glow was gone. The future glow ....

  She was seeing, once again, the distant past.

  Somehow, she knew this. That it was ... long ago.

  Underground. She was underground again, floating in a cored-out mountain. Below ground where the Founders had heated up the inner earth until it glowed with light and power.

  Plummeting from holes above ... she saw ... water.

  Water, earth-heat at the center quickly boiling it to steam, the steam rising. Rising. Rising. Rising. Rising .....

  Rising ....

  Zwicia was weary. Weary with breaking out of crystal-traps.

  And still the pictures came, a steam cloud boiling up to find its way into the light through high peak slit-holes. Hissing! Bubbling! Steaming!, the blistering, white cloud condensed to scorching water drops to collect along a narrow mountain ridge, the drops splashing down to become a stone-ribbed rill.

  Frothing down the mountainside to join other, boiling streamlets.

  Farther down, the rivulet bubbling over high peak falls, the water cooled. Enough that, presently, the creek could sustain life. Had within it, fish. Fish. Swimming.

  Flowing more quietly through the foothills, sleepy insects buzzed above the stream, the stream's bank busy with grass and yellow flowers.

  Here and there were willows, their sad, supple, light green branches waving to the ground.

  Joined by other brooks, the cooling stream formed, finally, into a tributary. Narrow first, and swift.

  Which, presently, fed by other runnels, grew into a river broad and deep, its course lined with high plains' trees. Oaks. Elms. The mighty cottonwood.

  Meandering through the plain, the wide water approached the delta ridge (on the sea, called the Leech) where all waters end, the sluggish flood draining into a far-flung sinkhole in the ground; there, to slide down dark and silent cavern floors. Draining lower, ever lower until cascading into the fiery center of the world, there to be hissed to steam again, ascending to condense into hot rain.

  Forever and forever.

  "Zwicia."

  Again, the sound. The sound of Zwicia's name.

  Louder, now that Zwicia was so tired.

  The crystal-image shifted.

  There was the Mage who was no Mage.

  There was a ... dagger.

  No!

  Zwicia must give warning!

  No! No! No! No! No!

  The knife was ... struck .........

  "Zwicia."

  Exhausted, the Weird lost concentration, her aching fingers old and stiff and clawed, the disk turned opaque again, the pictures ... gone.

  "Zwicia."

  It was the girl, Platinia. Beside Zwicia in Zwicia's room.

  "Zwicia here," the Weird grunted, the Weird still half-asleep. Dreaming ... with the crystal's help. Chanting to avoid the crystal-power. To keep from being snared by crystal-traps.

&
nbsp; "Zwicia, do not be afraid."

  It was the girl.

  "Zwicia see future."

  "What did you see?" the girl asked, timidly.

  "No fear for you," Zwicia said, pointing a fleshless finger at the disk, using her other hand to wipe sweat and limp wet hair from her wrinkled face. "No fear for you."

  The girl was relieved.

  "The Mage who not Mage, come."

  "What? I can't ... understand," the girl said in her baby voice.

  "The Mage who not Mage, come."

  "The Mage?"

  "The no Mage."

  Suddenly, remembering, Zwicia screamed again, the girl crying out as well, drawing back, the girl's hands covering her frightened mouth. "The Mage," said Zwicia, trying to explain. "A knife...!"

  The Weird able to say no more, the girl helped her to bed.

  -10-

  In the dark, wearing the rented tunic, which was nothing but a simple shift with the addition of a yellow strip he'd stitched on himself, John stood before the pie-shaped door that led to the under-the-stairs passageway to the other world. Beside him on the hall floor, was the old, hand-cranked static electric generator. Late last night (after he'd dragged the cardboard boxes out of that storage space and stacked them in his den) he'd tried cranking the antique machine. Worked up a sweat doing it. But found he could make the instrument put out the kind of static he needed for the crossover.

  Before shoving the generator into the black space and revving it up, though, John wanted to make sure he had everything with him that he would need in the other reality.

  John had the iron "discount store" chain around his neck, the steel-ringed, amber lens filter he'd purchased from the camera store soldered to it. While the "gem" didn't look exactly like the yellow Mage-crystal of Stil-de-grain, it should resemble it enough to fool most people. (Although John hadn't understood his fascination with Jiles' camera equipment that day in the office, it was the yellow filter's resemblance to the Mage disk that had "clicked" in his mind.)

  Positive that the last thing John wanted on this trip was to have anything to do with the dangerous, genuine crystal, he thought he might be able to put a counterfeit disk to use. What gave him influence in the other land, after all, was possessing a Mage's crystal, any metal-ringed piece of yellow glass about his neck good enough to fool the simple souls who lived there. After all, he'd been there for months -- accorded every privilege of a Mage -- before he'd learned how to use the real crystal. (It had also occurred to him that it might be unwise to flaunt the fake "medallion." Seeing the wisdom of concealing the "gem" until he wished it to be seen, he'd tucked the yellow lens filter inside his tunic top.)

  First thinking about hiding the gold in one of his boots, but deciding he was more likely to lose his boots than his tunic, John opening a seam in the bottom of the rental tunic and worked the gold chain into the tunic's hem, stitching shut the opening.

  Speaking of the tunic, he'd been delighted to find that the costume people had sewed in a couple of pockets. Very un-Stil-de-grain, but useful to a man unaccustomed to carrying small necessities in belt-pouches.

  He had on the rented boots -- less soft, less comfortable that the ones he'd owned on the other side -- but serviceable.

  The necessities taken care of, he'd put a lot of thought into what else he wanted to take along.

  A small, .22 semi-automatic?

  No.

  He'd decided against that for personal reasons. He'd never forgive himself if, in a moment of panic, he shot one of those, helpless, medieval types. ... Not helpless, he had to remind himself; just harmless compared to someone from a more technically advanced civilization.

  It also struck him as unwise to take something with him that was clearly from another world. A flashlight, for instance. A compass. Binoculars. A jackknife.

  He had allowed himself one, modern advantage, however -- something less modern than unavailable in the other world.

  Fire.

  Nestling in his right, tunic pocket was a brown cylinder of liquid butane, John considering the lighter to be his "ace in the hole." Should he need extraordinary "magic" to get out of trouble, real fire would trump the other world's magic-cool flames. (What he'd say if someone saw the device and questioned him about it, he didn't know, John trusting the small size of the lighter to make it inconspicuous.)

  The question still nagging him was whether or not he was making this return trip for the right reasons?

  To extend his life by going where time was an irrelevancy?

  To gain the undeserved respect he got as Pfnaravin, Crystal-Mage?

  Hardly admirable reasons.

  Was he making the trip to satisfy his curiosity about the outcome of the actions he'd set in motion when in the other reality?

  Or did he intend, like the last time, to help the forces of good -- assuming they still needed his help -- against the followers of the evil Mage-King of Azare?

  Might it even be that, in his loneliness, he wanted to see some of his old "friends": Platinia, Golden, Coluth, Zwicia -- none of them really his friends, though he'd come to care for them.

  Or could it be something as simple as restlessness? Boredom? The feeling of rootlessness he'd had since his parents' death?

  Whatever the reason -- he was going.

  Deciding on the trip yesterday, he'd worked out the details, first and most important, what to do with Cream. If this journey went like the last one -- months spent there, only a day going by here, all he had to do was leave his cat plenty of dry cat food, a bowl of water, and fresh clay in her litter pan, Cream, like any cat, needing her human at feeding time. Her bodily requirements satisfied, she might not even notice he was gone.

  In the end, though, guarding against an emergency, John had taken Cream to an animal boarding outfit, paying in advance for a week of care (which would constitute maybe two years of Stil-de-grain time. If John hadn't returned in a week, the animal care people were to call Paul Hamilton, asking Paul to find a good home for Cream. John hated to do that to Paul, (though the possibility of Paul getting drawn into this was remote), John not consulting Paul because his colleague had his own problems at the moment. (It was also the case that Paul was dead set against John having anything to do with the other world -- John's determination to return to Stil-de-grain sure to come out if Paul discovered John was boarding Cream.)

  In the end, without talking to anyone, John had taken a highly indignant Cream to the "animal farm."

  Only one detail left. How to make certain the old, hand-operated, static electric generator went with him to Stil-de-grain, John solving that difficulty by passing a length of rope under his belt, then through a slot in the machine's base -- tying the rope ends. Since his clothing had gone through with him the last time, the generator would, too.

  Above all, was John's desire not to get stranded there, a risk he'd minimize by staying only a short while -- then getting back out. A sensible scheme if anything about a journey to another world could be called sensible!

  It was dark outside. Cold and dark.

  Was this another motive for going to Stil-de-grain, a band that, though foggy at dawn and dusk and rainy every night, was pleasantly warm during the day? Did it all come down to John needing a vacation under a golden sky?

  Just one more example of the less than adequate reasons John had for returning to what he'd thought -- the first time he'd gone there -- to be a dangerous place for a modern man. A place that had turned out to be less threatening than he'd believed. Completely safe, given his hand-cranked generator. Nothing like being able to return to the good old USA at a moment's notice!

  He'd stalled long enough.

  Squatting down, John picked up the machine -- this hand-cranked model weighing less than the electrically driven Van de Graaff -- another plus.

  Setting the generator on the floor in front of the wedge-shaped hole, John used his foot to scoot the machine into the space before getting down on his hands and knees to crawl into the crampe
d, black area, John continuing to push the generator ahead of him until they were both inside.

  Sitting back, his head under the tallest place of the steeply sloping "roof," John pulled the dynamo to him.

  First snubbing up on the rope, he felt for the mechanism's handle; began grinding the electrostatic machine's crank, the contraption's flat, vertical, plastic disks hissing as they slid past each other, offering considerable resistance at first, then slipping more easily as they picked up speed, the disks emitting a sizzling sound as the apparatus' gears rotated at ever increasing speed.

  Yes!

  John could feel the static on his body start to build! Slower than with the electric model, but fast enough.

  Ignoring the strain the cramped position put on his cranking arm, disregarding the sweat popping out on his forehead, setting his teeth, John turned the handle faster still, John feeling his hair began to rise.

  Faster. Faster! ........ Now!

  Fully charged, no longer needing to turn the handle, John released the crank, the generator whining down, John elbowing his way further into the hole.

  Impossibly, farther ... until ... like the last time, he had the sensation of falling ......................

  * * * * *

  John awoke with the same, stunned sensation he'd had on the first trip, to find himself in the tower room in what he now knew was Hero Castle -- the room built over the spot where the Hero (whoever he had been) was supposed to have left in the distant past to enter John's world.

  Rising shakily, John found himself standing on the wet floor of that circular room, the space constructed of large, curving, age-darkened stones, the golden light of Stil-de-grain shining through a squared off hole in the two story, stone-slab roof. About the hole, John had certain knowledge. In order to produce the piezo effect of static electricity, Melcor, had caused an earthquake, the temblor shaking the roof, large slabs hurtling down to crush the unfortunate Stil-de-grain Mage. .....

  John was still thinking fuzzily. Was conscious of feeling ... airy ... a response he'd also experienced the first time he'd come through. ..... He felt ... strong. Because he was. Conditioned to earth's gravity, John was more powerful in Stil-de-grain than its weak gravity natives.