Worse, he had forced her to tell him she was an Etherial. Now that he knew she was an Etherial, he would hurt her as the others always did.
So, she must kill him.
Long, long ago, she thought a Mage could never die. She thought this until she had found a way to kill the Mage, Melcor. First, she had drawn Melcor's power to herself, then sent it to the ceiling stones, the shaken stones falling on Melcor as she had planned. At the same time, though, drawing the power to herself had sent her to the other world.
This time, she would be so careful she would not go to the other world. As with Melcor, she would build the magic of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin. Instead of gathering it to herself, though, she would guide the magic directly above the Mage's head. That much force would shake the ceiling stones still there and they would fall on Pfnaravin as stones had fallen down on Melcor.
She had killed Melcor. She had killed Chryses. Now, she would kill Pfnaravin.
With John-Lyon-Pfnaravin dead, no one would know she was an Etherial. Then, she would be safe.
Platinia was glad that she was to live here in Hero castle. There were many cats in the castle. She loved to pet them. They were so soft. They mewed to her as she petted them. They would lick her hand with their scratchy tongues. She could feed them and watch them eat. They had dainty mouths and tiny, pink tongues. They had sharp, white teeth but did not bite. And round, round eyes that shone like little torches in the dark. She loved cats.
Once, a cat had been afraid. It had scratched her. But it had not meant to hurt her as a man would hurt, and the pain was but a little one. She could never hurt a cat.
Platinia heard a sound down the rounded curve of the hall which led to the tower room. A moment later, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin entered. He was dressed in the strange clothes he had been wearing in that other place, the clothes he had been wearing when he came here.
"You're sure this will work, Platinia?" he asked, coming to stand beside her, looking down on her with his cruel, green eyes. He smiled at her as he often did.
Once, she had been spell-caught by the Mage's eyes. Once, she had been ... warmed ... by the Mage's smile. But no more.
The Mage was waiting for an answer. "Yes," she said, careful to smile back.
"So, where do I stand? What do I do?"
"Stand here, great Mage," she said, taking his huge hand in hers, leading him to a place where there were ceiling stones above his head.
"After I've gone," he said in a tired voice, "send the Crystal to Coluth. Then send the red messenger bird to Gagar to be trained. The message is to be that Coluth is now Mage. Cryo is to be advised that Coluth may need instruction in the use of the Crystal."
"Yes, great one."
It was ... terrible ... to be talking to a man that she must kill. But John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had a ... something ... that he could use to come back to this world again. She could not let that happen. He knew she was an Etherial. He must be dead!
There was a sound in the room, the sound of a ... cat. A blur of light streaked across the floor.
"Cream!"
The Mage had cried out. Stooping, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin picked up a large, white cat that had come up to him. "Cream," he said again, hugging the cat, burying his face in the cat's long, soft fur. "This is my cat," he said to Platinia, smiling very much. "This is Cream. She came through before me. I was really only looking for her when I -- we -- used the static electric generator to come to this world." The Mage was happy. He had found his cat.
"I can hold Cream and stroke the Crystal at the same time," the Mage said, holding the cat tight to his body with one hand, pulling out the Crystal with the other.
Shifting the cat, cradling it in both arms, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin began to stroke the Crystal to build its power. Platinia could see hair on the Mage's head begin to rise. Hair was standing out on the large, white cat.
It was time to strengthen the Mage's power, to send that power to the ceiling .... but .....
If the ceiling fell, it would kill ... the cat .....
Platinia was afraid! She could not hurt the cat! She could not do that! But what could she do? It was time to strengthen the Mage's power. If she did not do that, he would punish her!
Staring at the Mage, Platinia picked through his mind to strengthen his thoughts of going home. She could feel the power build in him.
Her hope was that he would put down the cat.
No.
He still had his cat, the cat now a round, white ball, its fur standing up all over. The cat's eyes were looking at Platinia. Now was the time to shake the ceiling ... but .... but ....
And then the Mage and his cat ... were gone. Only the yellow Crystal on its chain remained. It was on the floor where the Mage had stood.
Terror stricken, weeping, Platinia sank to the damp floor of the tower room. As long as Pfnaravin lived, as long as he had the ... thing .... he could come back and hurt her any time he liked!
* * * * *
Chapter 24
Paul was still seated on the divan, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. John had sagged back in the straight chair that he'd pulled out from beside the fireplace at the beginning of the evening. All that John had left of his tale of adventure was a ragged throat.
Though only yesterday, it seemed like a year since John had crawled out from under the stairs. Stunned. Disoriented. And much heavier than he should be. ..... Band sickness.
Without conscious thought, John realized he must have adjusted to the lighter gravity of Stil-de-grain, making it seem he'd gained seventy pounds in one day.
He was so exhausted physically and mentally that he'd been barely able to mount the stairs and drop down on his bed where he fell asleep immediately.
Later, when John woke, he'd stumped down to the kitchen; was starved enough to be on his second bowl of Wheaties before it occurred to him that his teaching career -- such as it was -- was finished. At least here in Kansas City. As for finding another job .... He could imagine the recommendation he would receive from Hill Top College, a letter which would begin: "After teaching with us for several months, Dr. Lyon mysteriously disappeared."
John was so glad to be home, though, he couldn't worry about that now.
Feeling better came to an end when he'd thought of something else. The milk on his cereal. Picking up the bowl, he'd smelled it gingerly. Nothing wrong with the smell. Or the taste. He would have noticed the taste first. And yet ....
Performing another test, he swiped his fingers over the white Formica table top, checking his fingertips to find nothing on them but a smear of milk from some drops he'd splashed on the table in his rush to eat. And that wasn't right either.
He'd been gone ... how many months? John didn't know. At least six months, surely. In that time, there should have been dust on ... everything. The milk, even under refrigeration, would have spoiled.
After a long moment of complete disorientation, John had managed to drag himself into the living room where he'd snapped on the TV, five minutes of news telling him what he'd suspected. That no time had elapsed between his "jump" to Hero castle and his return. While he hadn't heard the date, the news men were discussing the same issues that were current when John had left.
To nail it down, John clumped across the hall to his den and fired up his computer, the computer giving him the day and date. Sunday. The Sunday after the Friday he'd "disappeared" under the stairs.
He knew he'd been ... ill. But to have hallucinated the whole experience of the "other reality" ... and in such detail ...?
What he needed was help! -- help in Kansas City meaning Paul.
Paul had come that evening, alone as John asked. And except for seeming shocked to see John when first entering the house, had listened with hardly a comment throughout John's entire, "other reality" monologue.
So much for input. It was now Paul's turn.
"So ...?" John said, waving his hand feebly. Though recovering, he was still feeling much too heavy, his arms aching from the gesture
s he'd been making.
"I believe you, son," Paul rumbled, settling back on the sofa, the back of the divan squeaking under Paul's bulk, the living room too dark to see Paul's expression. John needed more lamps in the room -- something of an irony since that's the way this whole business started. Paul said he had faith in John's story; but did he really? The trouble with having Paul for a friend was that Paul wanted to believe what John said.
"I know it's fantastic," John admitted, slumping in his chair, dropping his "dead" arms on the chair's wood arm rests. "If there was just some way to prove it. If I'd only brought something back with me ..." John hadn't been thinking clearly at the time, his only desire to get out of the other world ... if he could! "Even I'm unsure I went to Bandworld.
"Have a little faith, my boy," Paul said, a tight smile on his lips, what light there was glinting from Paul's teeth. Paul looked tired also. Washed out. Rather like Paul had looked that night of the "ghost talk."
John had an idea. "Listen! I can prove it! Look!" Getting up as quickly as his too heavy body would allow, John dragged himself across the short distance between them, then thrust out his hands. Palms up. "Calluses. From rowing the Roamer!"
"Ahhhhhh...." Paul leaned forward to look. Then, shrugged, John dragging his hands back to look at his palms. ... No calluses.
"That's proof all right. A different kind than I'd hoped for." John backed up to flop down heavily in the old chair again, defeated.
"That you're crazy?"
"What else? It makes sense. I've been feeling bad. You know that Paul. I've been despondent lately. For no reason." Oddly, John wasn't feeling as "down" at the moment as he thought he should be. Maybe it was like the trendy psych people were always saying. Admitting you needed therapy was you're first step toward "wellness."
"That means I'm crazy too, then," Paul said, dismissing that idea with a grunt. And again, there was that knowing smile, a little broader this time. John had seen that look before; the look that said Paul knew a little joke he wasn't ready to share. "So you did some manual labor when you first got there. How long were you in ... Stil-de-grain ... after that?"
"Assuming that I'm sane you mean, and that your question makes sense?" Paul nodded, leaned back, and clasped his ham-hands behind his head, fingers laced, elbows wide. "It's hard to say. Time didn't seem to count for much in the Bands. But it would have had to be a number of months."
"If I understand you, you rowed a bit, but not recently enough to show on your lily white 'teaching' hands."
"I suppose." John felt so weary it was hard even to think. "I almost wish I knew for certain that I'm non compos. At least that way, I could sign myself into Tri-county Medical; get a little therapy and a lot of rest." John tried to think rationally. "But I guess you're right. The hands don't mean much one way or the other."
"While you're struggling hard to convince yourself you're around the bend -- and let me say again that I know you're not -- let me ask a couple of questions, OK." It was John's turn to nod.
"The girl. You said she had some special powers?"
"I thought so at the time. Now, I'm not so sure." John paused, trying to remember. "I may be crazy-of-the-year, but that other world still seems as real to me as anything that's happened to me in this one."
"So you're not convinced you imagined it?" Again, the boyish grin belying the forties face.
"I guess not. If only I had proof .... Stupid! I could have brought something with me. Not the Crystal. Crystals stay put. I knew that. But I could have worn something from there. Surely, the weave of the cloth would have been different, some kind of chemical analysis on it ..." John shook his head. "I just wanted to get out of there in the worst way. I may be crazy here, but I knew I was going crazy there. I wasn't even sure I could leave. I guess you don't make elaborate plans if you're not sure you're going someplace."
"And another thing," Paul said, pointedly ignoring John's angst. "You blame yourself for what you did in that battle. But it's not your fault. It seems to me that, given the circumstances, you did quite well. A different place. Different rules. You're no more to blame for what happened to you than a bushman fresh from the outback who, by a terrified dash across a city street, causes a traffic accident. Or to put it another way, if you don't know the properties of electricity, it's not your fault if you shock somebody."
"I'd like to believe that." They both thought that over.
"What did she call herself?"
"Who?"
"The girl."
"Platinia."
"No. The title she gave herself."
"... Etherial. I think that's it."
"Had special powers, you said?"
"I thought so at the time. Now, I see it could have been my imagination. If she's real at all, it's more likely that she was just a girl. Nothing special about her."
"Oh, she's real all right."
"Thanks for your faith in me, Paul." John managed a tired smile. "It's only fair to point out, though, that historians are not allowed to have faith. Faith is for religionists and for students who haven't studied for the final. Historians trust evidence, evidence, and nothing but the evidence."
"And so do I," Paul said quietly. "It's just that you're so exhausted you haven't noticed the evidence. It's like Judge Wapner says to the people who pull out in traffic only to have a car 'come out of nowhere' and rear end 'em. The judge always says, 'You looked, but you didn't see.'" Having convinced himself, Paul nodded in agreement. "Just a couple more things I'd like to know."
"Sure."
"No wind?"
"Almost none."
"And what else?"
"What do you mean?"
"What else in the weather department don't they have?"
"I don't know. The weather's all the same. Except that it seemed to grow warmer going to the inner bands, colder when going out."
"I didn't hear you use the word thunder."
"I ..."
"Or lightning."
John thought about that. "Funny, but I don't remember hearing the one or seeing the other."
"Figures."
"But what does that ...?"
"And the rain. Just drips at night, every night?"
"Yes."
"And fog at dawn and dusk?"
"That's right."
"Just one more question. You said that, looking in the big Crystal, you saw ... space men ... building a dome over the planet?"
"A dome over some planet. Maybe that one. That's the way it seemed to me."
"That's what you saw."
"How do you ...?"
"Because I built one, once."
"You built what, once?"
"A terrarium."
"A terrarium?"
"Sure. I used to have one. A big box with dirt in it, glass on the sides and on top. Plants, water inside. Short weeds for trees. Even a couple of little frogs. Tadpoles and guppies in a tiny, artificial lake. Kind of pretty. Made me feel like God to have made my own little world. Fogged up inside at night when it cooled down, moisture collecting on the glass ceiling to drip down as rain. Climate always the same. No wind." Paul grinned. "Somebody with real power set up that place as a terrarium. A self contained ecosystem."
"Maybe." It was something worth thinking about, at least.
"And one more thing. The languages there."
"What about them?"
"The ... Band names. The place names." Paul closed his eyes; wrinkled up his forehead. "Seems to me that even the names reflect the colors of the place. Take that green band -- Malachite. Malachite's a kind of yellowish green. So's bice -- about the same shade as malachite. I think that realgar's orange. I'm sure carotene is. I know a lot of those shade names because of Ellen." Ellen, the artist. "What's the band you were in the most?" Paul continued.
"Stil-de-grain."
"Isn't that French for yellow lake?"
"I tried to forget what little French I learned as soon as possible."
"Not important. 'Cause if I read you right,
those are not even the real names of the ... Bands. Of the cities."
"What do you mean?" John was tired.
"I mean, that the names you heard were all in your head. They're the words the daytime magic translated in your mind."
"I ... suppose."
"You said that, at night, the language was completely different. If I understand you, sort of Welsh sounding." John thought a minute.
"Right. A lot of end-of-the-alphabet letters."
"So you don't know any of the real names for locations. Or for people, either."
"Technically, that's true."
"It could be that, seeing the colored sky bands, your mind just translated shades of color for the place names."
"Maybe, but I didn't know that those names were colors."
"I'll bet that, somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you did. If you'd just read 'em once, they'd still be in there somewhere. That's what the psychos," -- Paul's name for psychologists -- "say. Once you see something, or hear something, it's in your mind forever."
It was all a blur. Too much. To many questions.
Paul rolled his massive wrist and peered down at his watch; brought the dial near his eyes to see the hands. "I've got to get home to Ellen. It's late." Shifting his weight forward, Paul got to his feet like a linebacker rushing the quarterback.
John struggled up.
He and Paul walked in silence to the hall where John had already lugged the generator over by the door in preparation for taking it back to school. He'd also shoved the boxes under the stairs, a difficult feat in his too-heavy state.
Paul picked up his coat which he'd draped over the bannister post; struggled into it; put on his leather gloves. Turned at the door. "If what's bothering you is the time thing, remember, time isn't a constant. I'd quote Einstein to you on that ... if I could."
"You think I traveled so fast going and coming that time stopped? That I went faster than the speed of light and reversed time?"
"Maybe. But after our little talk of this evening, there's a theory that makes more sense to me now than it did when I first read about it." Paul paused to order his thoughts.
Under The Stairs Page 33
