Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Could the ability to communicate with them be a kind of mental thing? Did it come and go? John had to hope so. For he desperately needed it to "come" again. Trying to think positively, John told himself that, should communication never be restored, he could learn the local language in time. For now, the only thing that was clear was that all discourse with Chryses and Platinia had ... stopped.

  But wait! As distressed as John was by what had just happened, neither the old man nor the girl looked startled at no longer being able to understand him. Quite calm, they had returned to nibbling at what was left of their meal.

  Realizing this, John could breathe again. If the "natives" weren't upset at the loss of dialogue, perhaps he shouldn't be either.

  "Iiltjsn," said Platinia softly, shaking her head, her face sober as always, indistinct in the yellow torch light.

  And that was the totality of the conversation for the rest of the meal -- which wasn't long.

  Supper over, Chryses rose from the table. By gestures, beckoned for John to follow, John, in turn, waving for Platinia to come, too.

  Getting up, walking around the table, John waited for Chryses to slide down the bench until he was clear, Chryses pacing to the nearest wall, brushing along it, taking a torch from its mounting.

  Torch in hand, the butler led John and Platinia through the castle's moist, dark corridors, then up rough stone steps until they entered John's room off the narrow, torch-lit hall.

  Following John into the room was Platinia, both the butler and the girl thinking she would be sleeping with John.

  Not that she wasn't exotically interesting, but ....

  John just realized he'd stopped seeing Platinia as a child, Platina definitely a young woman. Finding her in his hallway, her size, her simple speech patterns -- had caused him to mistake her for a girl.

  Beguiling, perhaps, but no, John would not be exploiting Platinia. From her obvious fear of him, he had the feeling she'd already been abused -- even chained if what he'd been told about Melcor was true! Since Melcor was a Mage as she thought John was, no wonder she feared the great "Mage," John Lyon.

  Through gestures, John got Platinia to understand that she would be sleeping somewhere else, Platinia retreating into the hall.

  Torch still in hand, the elegant fingers of his other hand trilling, Chryses indicated an adjoining door, John pushing through to discover a bathroom near the left wall at the room's center, a raised seat over a hole that was probably a straight shot for several stories to a dung heap. Nearer to John on the same wall was a mirror of polished bronze, a basin in front of it. Between the basin and the stool was a large container on metal legs, the pottery tank filled with water. On the far side of the water supply, sunk in the floor, was a generous tub, the tub already filled with heated water. Recently filled, the metal wall mirror beginning to fog up. Thick, woolly towels hung from what looked like a folding coat stand to one side. A heavy robe was also draped over that rack.

  Chryses' gyrations were clear. John was to take a bath, then go to bed.

  Satisfied with the agreeable noises John made to let him know John understood, the butler lodged the torch in an iron cone in the wall just inside the top of the bathroom door, bowed his elegant bow, turned, and walked through the dark bedroom, closing the hall door behind him.

  Leaving John alone.

  A straight razor of dull, blackish metal lay by the basin. Iron. Not steel, steel not the kind of idea the "Hero" could have brought back from a trip from what was obviously the Middle Ages -- unless he'd been in contact with Saracens.

  A leather strop hung by the razor, the wide leather belt used for touching up the razor's edge. A bisque crock on a shelf to the left of the mirror held white powder -- soap? No. Pinching the powder between thumb and forefinger, John thought it was soda -- a cleaning agent that predated the invention of soap.

  Strange how you could wish for the most ordinary things at such a time, John feeling nostalgic about his old Norelco. A straight razor? Never used one. ... Before now.

  Dipping up some water to wet his face, using soda to set up his beard, John managed to shave without cutting himself. (Proving that this land was a place of miracles.) And for toilet paper? In an iron pan beside the stool, John found a sponge attached to the end of a stick, the sponge to be used for its obvious purpose, washed off by pouring water over it, John guessed.

  Quickly, John stripped and got into the bath, his body feeling light, as if floating in water with a high salt content.

  Relaxed by a good soak, toweled off, John felt he could sleep.

  But first, he needed to learn more about his surroundings.

  Robe on, John brought the torch from the bathroom to the bedroom holding the torch high to look around the larger room, John seeing a fresh change of clothes on top a bureau ... a tunic similar to the one he'd been given earlier

  Wanting to position himself in relation to the out-of-doors, John went to the window, removed a bar, and pushed out the rasping sash. To find what he'd expected, that it was dark outside.

  No. More than dark -- black. No stars. No moon.

  John stuck the torch out the window in the faint hope of picking out something by its flickering light, but saw only fog.

  Returning to the room, he set the pointed torch handle in a high holder on the wall nearest the bed's headboard, stepped up on the platform, took off his robe, and climbed through the open curtains around the bed to stretch out.

  There was a pillow at the top of the bed. No surprise there, the need to prop up your head while sleeping seeming to be universal. There were also light covers on the bed that he pulled over him.

  And ... here he was. In this ... other reality ... this land (Band) which the natives called Stil-de-grain. A country in another ... world. A strange girl as his servant (slavey,) Platinia saying she "belonged" to him, the butler also using that phrase. The castle and all within it belonging to the Mage.

  And, of course, devious man that he was, John had craftily convinced these country bumpkins that he was the great Mage, Pfnaravin. Pfnaravin, laying low. Pfnaravin, brain damaged. Pfnaravin, playing some grim kind of joke.

  This was what he wanted? An adventure? Some excitement to fight depression? If so, he'd succeeded beyond all measure ..... And all John could think about was getting home.

  Nothing he could do about that now. Nothing but try to get a good night's sleep so he'd be clear headed tomorrow as he began to tackle the problem of how to manufacture enough static in this primitive place to get him home. No Van de Graaff generators here. But ... maybe he could build one ... in time.

  Time to get to sleep. ... Except he was used to sleeping in the dark.

  No problem. He could take the torch into the bathroom and plunge it into the water tank.

  Getting up, taking up the torch, going into the bathroom, he did just that.

  Except ... that ... even under water ... the torch burned! Startled, John dropped the torch's handle, the flaming end bobbing to the surface, the torch floating on its side, its flames burning merrily both above and below the water.

  The hair was stiffening on John's neck.

  Staring at that eerie torch, he even imagined that its flame was ... cold!?

  Steeling himself, his hand trembling, John stepped forward and whipped his hand through the flame coming off the water! No ... heat. .... He trailed his shaky fingers through the fire more slowly. ... No more heat than you would expect from a flashlight beam. Swallowing hard, he plunged his hand into the flame and forced himself to keep it there. .... No sensation.

  Retreating a step, attempting to control his ragged breathing, John tried desperately to think of what "fire" like this could mean. Light ... but no heat? ... Electric fire??

  It was that thought which triggered the enormity of what had happened to him! That he'd been divorced from every certainty he'd ever known, now in a world so alien that his life had to be in constant danger!

  He must get out of this bewitched world! He had n
o business in a place where fire "burned" under water! Even his assumption that the culture was medieval could be false. The concept of immortal fire opened the possibility that he'd landed in a world of infinite technical accomplishment. Was this castle something they'd built to fool him? Were these people so advanced he was good for nothing but to be an animal in their zoo? Literally, anything was possible!

  Without thought, John was back in bed, the covers pulled up, the torch left to float and burn in the bathroom basin.

  Sweating. In spite of the evening chill, John was sweating.

  He had to get to sleep. He had to. Count sheep? Were their sheep in this world? Did they grow wool? Could the sheep here be man eaters?

  Putting everything he knew together, John was in a place of cruel and powerful Wizards. A world where the inhabitants could, then could not, speak English. A land where Mages "withered" their butler's eyes. A place where house hold servants were called slaveys. A world so different that it had "electric" fire, a place where the former Wizard had kept Platinia in chains. (For all John knew, he was in a land where it was a good idea to keep Platinia chained!)

  Exhausted, John drifted into a fitful sleep, still hoping he would wake to find this frightening world ... a dream!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 10

  John was coming awake, his body stiff. What day was it; what classes would he be teaching? He was still tired. He hadn't slept well. So, what else was new? His mouth was a swamp. Noises through the windows. ... Odd. ... The windows should be closed -- too cold to have them open this time of year. Had he left the TV on downstairs?

  Enough awake to know he was lying on his back, John opened his eyes, had trouble focusing. The ceiling? Where was the ceiling? Blackness. Was it still night? He didn't smell anything. Because ..... sleep prevented smell ....

  "Good morning, great Mage," whined a high, thin voice out of the darkness at the foot of the bed. Startled, John sat bolt upright, one hand behind him on the bed to prop himself up, the other scrambling to cover himself below. Peering into the room's half-light, he saw a formally dressed old man at the foot of the bed, bowing, making intricate hand movement in the air. And it all came back!

  "My God," John said, convinced, sagging back, closing his eyes, rubbing them with both hands. He opened the swollen lids again to try to focus on the quaint old man at the end of the bed. "Where am I?"

  "In your bedroom, Lord," said the cracked, alto voice.

  "And who are you?" John knew, but hoped to be contradicted.

  "Chryses, your chamberlain, sir." It was all coming back: the stairs, the girl, the new "reality." The dead wizard. Stil-de-grain. Chryses. The fear John had felt last night when the words of these "others" had turned to gibberish.

  But ... he was understanding this aged butler, now.

  "You can grasp what I'm saying?" John asked, hesitantly.

  "Of course, sir."

  "But last night ..."

  "That was in the night." While answering John's questions, the old man was doing so in the manner of one who explains simple procedures to a child.

  John remembered another mystery. "The torch. It wouldn't go out."

  "The one in the basin, sir?" The butler seemed to be following the principle that one must speak with elaborate care to the insane.

  "Yes. And please, just answer my questions. I'm not yet up to being quizzed." So far, stating his requests as orders had worked as well as anything.

  "Of course. How thoughtless of me. It is just that when the slavey found it there, she was ... distressed ...."

  "I'm sure," John said dryly, propping himself on his elbows, shifting his pillow behind him so that it supported his head.

  "Had I known your desire to have the offending implement removed, mighty Mage, I would have ordered a slavey to do it. In future, a pull on that cord," the old fellow indicated a frayed rope of braided cloth hanging down by the head of the bed, "and your every wish will be attended to."

  Another thing John kept forgetting was that the man was blind. "My most profound regrets. I beg you to forgive my negligence. The death of Melcor ... your return under what, please forgive me for saying, was a most peculiar circumstance ..." As the words of abject apology continued to tumble out of the shadowy area below the man's mustache, it was clear that the butler still assumed John to be the Mage, Pfnaravin, returned to his people. But ... first things first.

  "Getting back to the torch," John said at the first available crack in the old man's monologue, "the flame was cool."

  "Naturally, great lord." Chryses sounded indignant that John would even suggest otherwise.

  "I would like the reason for that explained to me."

  "But ...." The butler stopped suddenly, running one hand through what was left of his bushy hair, his blind eyes staring at a point just above John's head. "It was not necessary that it be so. No heat was required, the torch being for light, only." And that made sense -- in a crazy sort of way. A flashlight didn't need to be hot to fulfill its purpose, either. Electric fire? That had been John's explanation last night. Except that the torch blazed with real fire. Was not topped with some gimmicky light bulb that simulated flame.

  "And water didn't douse it. Why?"

  "By the time of the dinner's conclusion, you will recall it was down-light. So ...." Explanations were difficult for both of them, Chryses having trouble finding the words to answer questions he didn't fathom. Perhaps another tack ...?

  "I saw the slaveys lighting the torches last night." The butler bowed. "But I didn't understand the process. How did they light them?"

  "They just ... thought ... them alight, Lord, as you yourself would do."

  "Thought them alight?" The old man half-bowed, plainly uncertain of the direction of the conversation.

  "Perhaps, if you showed me how it's done?"

  "Of course, Lord. Though the torch," he waved in the general direction of the bathroom, "has been returned to the dining room. If another will do, there would be one in the corridor."

  "Fine. Please get it. In the meantime, I'll get out of bed and start dressing. Don't hurry."

  "As you wish, sir," the old gentleman said, with a deep bow, turning on his heel to pace out of the room. He had to be counting steps to find his way, John thought, the man striding to the door, having only to fumble slightly to find its wrought iron handle.

  At the thud of the closed door, John threw the covers back, was up and into the fresh robe put on the rough wooden end table by the bed. "Dressed," he made a quick trip to the bathroom.

  And John was ready. As ready to face the day as he would be on any first day in a new world.

  Steeling himself, John opened the bathroom door and ducked back into the bedroom, Chryses, unlighted torch in hand, waiting there for him. "Thank you Chryses," John said, the butler needing constant praise in order to function.

  Stepping upon the platform, John sat down on the edge of the bed, the butler approaching to stop at the platform's edge. "I'm ready," John said. "You may light the torch. And do it slowly ..."

  "Slowly, lord?" Again, John had asked something which had struck the literal minded old fellow as impossible. Light it ... slowly? When the torch lit, it was lit. There was no way to do it slowly any more than someone could switch on a flashlight slowly. Click -- it's off. Click -- it's on. Strange, how you could see such thoughts, even in a blind man's eyes.

  "I mean, don't do it until I'm ready to watch." John thought of something else. "Once lighted, will you be able to ... wave ... out the light again?"

  "Why, of course." The man sounded a little miffed. It was what John needed to know, however, to make an educated guess about what was possible by day and by night.

  "Lighting torches and blowing them out -- that is, thinking them out -- is done in the daytime?"

  "That is ... most true ... great Mage." The butler was now praising John for finally understanding something. John could imagine Chryses telling friends that the "great Mage" needed lots of praise t
o function properly.

  For the time being, John would have to ignore what the old man thought, asking stupid questions the only way John was going to get the basics explained to him.

  "And it follows that torches can neither be lit nor 'unlit' after dark?"

  The bow of assent.

  "Why?"

  "Why, lord?" Chryses was at a loss once more, the old man using his free hand to brush back his frizzy hair tufts like he did when confused. "It is that magic is in the light."

  "No other explanation?"

  "How could there be? Magic cannot be explained. It just ... is." For that matter, John thought, how many people knew (in an age when science was used to explain "wonders") how their cars worked? Or their dishwashers? Or how electricity was generated?

  "Magic just ... is. Of course," John agreed. "Will you think it alight now, please?"

  Without ceremony, rather like someone would strike a match to touch off charcoal lighter, the old man stared at the torch, the torch head bursting into flames.

  As close to a "mystery" as he'd even been, John leaned forward even more, getting near enough to notice this was another of those icy flames. No heat; no matter how close he got. "Will you think it out, please?"

  Again ... a simple wave and the torch was out. Magic.

  John had a wild thought. Not only the butler, but also last night's slaveys had worked torch "magic." If there was "magic" in the light of this place, did that mean that John could light torches with just a thought?

  Concentrating, John put his mind to thinking about a lighted torch.

  Nothing. He tried again. The torch didn't light. "Thank you. And just who can light a torch in this manner?"

  "Why ... anyone ... Lord."

  "You mean anyone in the Castle."

  "Surely."

  "And people outside the fort?"

  "Anyone ... in the Band ... in all the Bands, Lord."

  Anyone but ... me, John thought, the unpleasant reality dawning on him that he was probably the only one in the land unable to perform what, to others, was a simple act of torch lighting.