Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  This was a tricky business.

  A situation in which the king must be alone to think.

  "Clear the hall," said Yarro, soberly, the army Head seconding the king's command, the guards hurrying the weary guests from the room, the king's officials also slipping quietly away.

  Still sitting in his chair on the platform, alone (except for the perimeter guards) among the ruins of the banquet, the king scowled. All he could do was send the army to assault Hero castle. Pit them against the Mage's magic.

  To be sure, soldiers would die in the assault, scorched to death by withering blasts of Crystal-Magic. Small loss, though. That was the purpose of soldiers. To spend their lives in the king's service.

  Eventually, Melcor's Crystal-power drained, the king would overwhelm the castle. Seize the Etherial.

  And could Yarro also eliminate the Mage? An open question to be answered later.

  King Yarro's mind was, once more, at its deadly best. Let Melcor think the king did not know who had taken the Etherial. Let nothing happen for several full-lights. Then, the Mage lulled into inattention ... a skillful thrust!

  An excellent plan. A plan which, if carried forward with the proper care, could net the king the Etherial and much more. The Etherial for certain, and possibly another prize of inestimable worth. A dead Mage and a second Crystal!

  Then ... let them all beware!

  * * * * *

  As it had for many up-lights, the ghost hand floated above the damp floor of the tower room, Melcor's magic holding the hand in the same position as it had appeared to him: palm down, the hand near the room's left edge and three-quarters of a body length above the floor.

  Across the circular room, a steeply angled shaft of light fell on the face of the Etherial. Looking up, up, Melcor saw that the light source was the golden sky of Stil-de-grain showing through the hole made by a roofing stone plunging to the floor during the last shaking of the earth. Unhappily, not enough heat came through the hole to dry the moisture of the nightly rains. Melcor wrinkled his nose at the room's musty smell; regretted the time he had to spend in this malodorous room.

  Like the hand before him, Melcor had bound the girl with magic chains, small as she was, having to use but a fraction of the Crystal's force to hold her. Still, any expenditure of effort leeched power from the Mage Gem.

  For his part, Melcor stood before the hand, his hawk face as emotionless as the girl's, the Mage giving no sign of the elation surging through his wizened body.

  Stood ... and waited ...

  He had put on a formal robe for the occasion. Had garbed the Etherial in a short, black tunic, the sky-shaft glowing from her face and arms, so that she appeared to be a bodyless puppet suspended in mid-air by strings.

  Melcor had not been present when Pfnaravin entered the other world. (He knew when the Malachite had crossed into that other place, however, Melcor near enough to Hero Mountain to feel the temblor caused by Pfnaravin's passage.) While Melcor was in attendance at yet another of the king's weddings -- the great Mage and the Mage's apprentice had come to Hero castle, the castle thought to be built on the spot where the Hero had entered the other world. Old, wise, Pfnaravin had surmised that it was by a shaking of the earth that the Hero had been transported. Seeking to prevent the return of evil, Pfnaravin had come to Hero castle to cause such a shaking so that he, too, could travel to the other world.

  Knocked to the ground by the resultant earth shake, Melcor had hurried to the castle, hearing what had happened from his castle servant, Chryses, that though Chryses had urged Pfnaravin to wait, saying that Melcor would soon return, no ordinary man could stop a Mage. (And Melcor had not punished Chryses for Pfnaravin's rash attempt.) Too impatient to wait for Melcor, Pfnaravin had entered the tower room and caused the earth to quake by a concentration of Crystal-power. (Melcor did blame Chryses for allowing the hasty departure of Pfnaravin's apprentice, however, Melcor disciplining the palace functionary by blinding him.)

  All in the long ago. All to be set right ... soon.

  As the time approached, Melcor was engaged in balancing the Crystal's powers. First, and always, using enough force to keep the band of Azare in darkness.

  In addition, he must maintain the wards. Since even stupid Yarro would eventually realize that it was Melcor who had abducted the Etherial, Melcor had erected magical "webs" around the castle. (It was something of a mystery, in fact, why the king had not already assaulted the citadel.) What Yarro could not do was come by stealth. No one moved against Hero castle without tripping the wards, any disruption sending vibrations through Melcor's gold Crystal. Long before any soldier approached the walls, Melcor would be warned.

  Snaring the ghost hand absorbed more power. It was a marvel that Melcor had been in the tower at the very instant of its appearance, Melcor there to seek the book, when, turning, he saw the hand thrust into the room. Cut off jaggedly at the wrist. Floating shoulder high above the floor.

  Pfnaravin's hand, the great Mage attempting to return to his own world!

  It was in that instant of understanding that Melcor had put Mage-restraints on Pfnaravin's hand so that, at least, it stayed where it belonged.

  Immobilizing the hand for such a length of time had been another erosion of Melcor's Crystal's power.

  Still, the hand was a further proof that the great Pfnaravin was alive, alive and endeavoring to return. It was just that, entering the other world without his green Crystal, Pfnaravin could not generate sufficient magic to propel his whole body through.

  Since the appearance of the hand, Melcor had braved the moldy smell of the tower again and again in failed attempts to find a way to return Pfnaravin. At the same time, by focusing on the hand, Melcor had found a way to use Crystal-power to reach Pfnaravin's mind. Through Pfnaravin's eyes, Melcor had glimpsed dim images of that other place: Pfnaravin sitting in a ... something ... that hurtled down smooth, rock roads, other ... somethings ... that could be metal carts ... racing past ... constructions ... taller than mountains, built of ... glass? Unthatched houses, side by side, lines of them that went on forever and forever. A world of wonder! (Pfnaravin had been right to believe that the other world had much to teach. A thing the Hero had also said upon his return in the long ago.)

  Frustrated at not having the power to bring Pfnaravin back, it was then that Melcor had witnessed the Etherial. (And to think how angry Melcor had been to have his labors interrupted by the king's summons!)

  Melcor had first seen the Etherial at the far end of the temple's sanctuary, the girl fastened to the alter-front with golden chains!

  Now, that source of legendary power was Melcor's to command!

  His magic strengthened by the Etherial, Melcor would soon have enough force to bring Pfnaravin back. (Let Yarro fall upon the castle, then! Against two Mages, a king's power paled to insignificance!)

  The Etherial! Melcor laughed the brittle chuckle of the wise. What a fool Yarro was to try to hide her. True, if Melcor had not known of her existence in the Palace .... But he had known, and so had searched. Back bent, hobbling with his old man's steps, he'd been invisible to guards, soldiers on the alert for more vigorous foes. Melcor had shuffled through the Palace's lavish rooms until, in the kitchen, he had sensed the power of that lowly drudge.

  The rest was easy. First, Melcor had compelled the frazzled kitchen Head to give him the girl to use as a servant. After that, had left the Palace with the king's most prized possession! (What tableau would seem more innocent, after all, than an old man followed by a loaded, trailing slavey!?)

  Out of sight of the stronghold, Melcor had moved with the speed of youth: hastily descending the sloping streets of Xanthin to the harbor; taking a fast ship to Canarin; marching the Etherial to Hero castle.

  There at last, another difficulty had emerged. Melcor had been vexed by how to secure the Etherial's cooperation (the girl continuing to insist she was but a kitchen drudge.) Naturally enough, from the first, Melcor had used magic restraints on the girl's body -- as h
e was doing now. He could not have her wandering off while he was distracted by his important preparations. The problem was that, at the instant of the transfer of Pfnaravin, Melcor must relinquish all control of the girl in order to focus his complete attention on the relocation. That being the case, Melcor's problem was to find some means to persuade the girl that she wished what Melcor wished.

  In the end, he had discovered a way to convince her. A technique violating neither the girl's mind nor her body. He was inspired to put her in a waking dream in which, end to end, she was compelled to relive the most hideous memories of her past. (Judging from her screams of anguish and the violent writhing of her body, grisly memories indeed.)

  Until she begged to use her power as he commanded, knowing that, if she did not, he would drown her in those waking dreams ... forever.

  To impress her even more, Melcor had forced her to watch through Pfnaravin's eyes, the girl quaking in terror at the marvels of the other world. In this and other ways, Melcor had made the girl as afraid of Pfnaravin as she was of him, her fear of offending the slightest wish of such dreadful Mages a guarantee of the girl's assistance.

  With Pfnaravin's return, King Yarro would be compelled to return Pfnaravin's Crystal. And thenceforth, what magical power! First, to be used in the final eliminating of the evil Mage-King. Then, at a moment's weakness, to effect the destruction of the "great" Pfnaravin himself. After which, Melcor, twin Crystal-Mage, would rule the world.

  But ... enough forethought.

  Looking skyward through the roof hole, Melcor saw that the light was at its peak. It was time!

  Stroking the Crystal with his claw-like fingers, mumbling the guttural chant beneath his breath, Melcor withdrew the ward-power surrounding the castle, the wards crumbling. With no army at the gates, ward-warnings were no longer needed. Next, Melcor broke the mental chain that bound the girl, the Etherial slumping to the floor. As an afterthought, he attached a light, physical control to her so he could still direct her movements. "Here, girl," he said, motioning the frightened girl to rise and join him before the floating hand, the girl doing so hesitantly, panic in her eyes. (She could do no less, of course, since he still held her under restraint.) "Do as you are told or ..." He did not have to complete the thought, the girl nodding quickly, her eyes gone wide with fear. "Stand here . ... No -- here beside me." The girl kept cringing away from him. "You understand what you must do?" Head down, she nodded, her short, black hair falling forward to hide her terror stricken eyes. "At the shaking of the earth, I will signal you to strengthen the Mage-Magic. Do it slowly until Pfnaravin has returned. Too little power and Pfnaravin will not emerge. Too much, and we endanger the room itself." To make the latter case, Melcor first motioned to the hole in the roof where the slab had fallen through at Pfnaravin's shaking of the mountain, then pointed down to direct the girl's attention to the fearful gouge in the stone floor the falling block had made.

  Certain that the girl understood, Melcor grasped the Crystal once again. Stretching it before him on its chain, pointing it at the hand, he began to stroke the Crystal as he had done so many times in his failed attempts to transport the great Mage. Taking up the low, droning Crystal-chant, Melcor felt the Crystal warm beneath his fingers, the disk glowing as he built its power. Wishing to command all the Crystal's force, he took back the magic necessary to keep the band dark above Azare. (No harm would come if Azare's sky should lighten for a time.)

  Slowly, as the Crystal hummed with talismanic power, Melcor began directing the force down, down, sinking it through the floor, driving it into the ground, searching with his mind for the foundation boulders on which the castle stood. Though he had done this before, the Etherial would now magnify his force to drive the magic deeper. Shake the bedrock of the mountain! If he could reach into the mountain's bowels -- penetrate the earth as had Pfnaravin with Pfnaravin's greater Crystal-power ....

  Yes! Melcor could hear the rumblings of the earth, feel the lower strata tremble.

  It was time!

  Withdrawing his control of the girl, he signaled her to add her doubling power.

  Yes!

  He could feel the Crystal strengthen!

  There! That crackling, that ... feeling ... of spiders ... crawling on his skin. The force was building, building -- great plates of stone grinding deep within the earth. Beside him, the energy was also on the girl. At his vision's edge, he saw her black hair start to rise, to crackle with cold, white sparks. His hair was levitating, too. Spiraling up, alive with power!

  With all his mind, Melcor focused on the ghost hand, ready to transfer the girl's force into the hand, to drag the rest of Pfnaravin through. .....

  There was a high pitched shriek. The Crystal! It's hum become a shrill!

  Too much! Too much force, the castle rolling like a drunken man!

  The girl!

  Melcor's concentration broken, he turned to see the girl's hair standing stiff, her eyes wild ... Melcor feeling his Crystal power shift, not to the hand, but ... to the girl ......!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 8

  No matter how stupid, this "experiment" had given John the kind of energy he hadn't had in months. Just a few minutes more to work up his courage and John was going to try it!

  He'd eaten first, then dithered around until it was dark outside on this windy Friday night. Now standing warm and sheltered before the open door of the stair cavity, he was as ready as he would ever be.

  Almost.

  John had already plugged in the orange extension cord, trailing it from the far wall socket in the living room into the hall. All he had to do now was plug in the cord, bathe in the mechanism's electrons for a few moments, then jerk the extension cord out of the socket across the room. No sense in leaving the machine plugged in. It might overheat and burn down the house.

  His flashlight was on the post.

  That afternoon, John had lugged the instrument into the hall, the machine measuring two feet in diameter at the base and standing three feet high, the apparatus sleek, hi-tech -- its rounded, black metal base supporting an inset column of chromed metal that rose to support a brushed-silver, volleyball sized globe. Inside the column was a vertical pulley system -- grooved wheels, V-belt. A metal fringe was attached both to the column wall and to one side of the power cord, the other pole of the "incoming" AC, grounded somewhere inside. An electric motor in the base drove the belt around the pulleys, the belt endlessly brushing the feathered metal to pick up charged particles, depositing them on metal "picks-ups" attached to the inside of the insulated, aluminum ball on top.

  A Van de Graaff generator, Fredericks had called it. The latest in static electric proliferation.

  You needed static electricity and plenty of it? You consulted old Jason Fredericks in the physics department. Bald, grooved in his job like the generator belt in its pulleys, Fredericks knew his stuff.

  But why would anyone but a physics teacher need that kind of power, Jason had asked, John telling the white lie that he wished to experience, for himself, a little of Ben Franklin's research. (This was no time for candor -- particularly when the strict truth might lead to speculation about haunted houses.) Satisfied with John's explanation, Fredericks had unlocked a big cabinet near the floor at the back of his lab and taken out the Van de Graaf.

  Hoisting it to a scarred, granite counter, he'd discussed its operation, then plugged it in so John could see what it would do. And what it did was to make John's hair stand on end -- just like petting Cream made her fur fluff out. You put your hand on top of the ball, and static electricity "stuck" to your whole body, John's synthetic slacks clamping tight against his legs. Static cling -- with a vengeance -- the effect lasting until the charge had drained away into the atmosphere.

  Fredericks had even shown John an old, beat-up, non-electric model -- one with a hand crank. Same principle: static generated by two plastic disks rotating in opposite directions, the static transferred to metal strips, then stored in a condenser. (A condens
er, as it turned out, was what used to be called a Leyden Jar back in Franklin's day, John having some idea about Leyden jars and how they worked.)

  Mr. Physics had been kind enough to let John borrow the modern generator for the weekend, John hauling it across campus to the faculty parking lot, negotiating it into the "back seat" of the Mazda, even driving home at a sensible speed to get the generator there in one piece.

  Looking at the alien piece of gear on the hall floor, John had the usual last minute doubts about acting on what was no better than the hunch that both Cream and his hand had "gone through" the stair-space because they'd been "charged" with static electricity, cat and hand trapped in a "foreign" location with a different climate, a place that produced the sounds of rain and -- chanting??

  The question of the moment was: could John find the courage to use the machine on himself in an attempt to go "through"?

  Yes.

  For John had become fixated on the notion that once "electrified," he could duck under the stairs into a "hole" in time, grab Cream, and get back out.

  John hadn't told anyone he was going to make this attempt, of course. He hadn't even told Paul, Paul's energy put into worrying about Ellen lately. (Something about spotting.) And who else could John tell? You didn't walk up to a stranger and say you were planning to"electrify" yourself in order to vault into another reality. Not if you wished to avoid having yourself "vaulted" into another reality -- like a padded cell.

  John also had to admit that, in the back of his own mind he had doubts about his "noises" and his "rain." He had to consider that what he'd been hearing -- feeling -- could be a hallucination.

  It was then, John standing beside the stairs, storage door open in front of him, lamp boxes stacked out of the way, that he began to hear the muttering sound again ... the noise increasing slowly until it was louder than before. It wasn't wind; it wasn't squirrels in the attic; it wasn't birds on the roof. Either John was hearing some kind of voice coming from under there ... or he was crazy.