The Lightning Key (Wednesday Tales (Quality))

by Jon Berkeley

  He paused for a moment, scratching the back of his head. “Think I have something that might come in handy,” he said. He marched back into the kitchen and began rummaging in the cupboards, returning a minute later with a battered biscuit tin, which he upended on the table. A pile of odds and ends fell out and rolled across the polished wood. There was a cotton reel bristling with needles, some twisted pipe cleaners, a lock of blond hair tied with fuse wire, coins from every continent, rubber bands, pencil sharpeners, half a stick of dynamite, ball bearings, a wax crayon (there’s always one of them), a whistle, a dozen wasted batteries, some string, a magnet, two teeth, a roll of solder, a tiger’s egg, a broken penknife, two dust-covered bull’s-eyes, a small—

  “Just a minute!” said Miles, plucking a small stone from the tide of knicknacks. It was egg-shaped and polished, and shot through with deep amber stripes.

  “Find something interesting, Master Miles?” said Baltinglass.

  “Is this really a Tiger’s Egg?” asked Miles in astonishment.

  “Nope,” barked Baltinglass of Araby. “It’s a fake. Bought it at a street stall in Hong Kong many years ago. Best place in the world for picking up fakes, Hong Kong. If they made a copy of your head and set it on your shoulder you wouldn’t know which one to shave.”

  Miles held it up to the window, and it glowed with a honey-colored light.

  “It’s beautiful!” said Little.

  “But what use is a fake tiger’s egg?” asked Miles. He suddenly realized that he had never seen the real Egg, though he had carried it with him all his life. He wondered just how good a copy this one was.

  “No idea,” said Baltinglass, “but it has more chance of being useful in my pocket than lurking behind the semolina.” He took the fake egg back from Miles and slipped it into a buttoned pocket inside his jacket. “Best if I put it in here for safekeeping, eh? Now, lock the doors and batten the hatches, the two of you. We’ll leave through the garage.”

  Miles rolled up Baltinglass’s map while Little locked the French windows and drew the heavy bolts on the front door; then they followed Baltinglass as he marched to a small wooden door in a corner of the hallway. He threw the door open to the sound of skittering mouse feet and a smell of dust and old grease, and they stepped through into a small garage that was carpeted with dust. Bars of sunlight crept in between the planks of the door and striped a large shape that stood under a tarpaulin in the center of the room, so that for a moment Miles thought the tiger stood there waiting for him. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out the shape of a car beneath the cover, and he looked at it with curiosity.

  “Pull off the tarp, then,” bellowed Baltinglass, “and let the old girl breathe.”

  Miles and Little each took a corner of the tarpaulin and pulled. A massive car emerged from beneath it like a dark green whale. It had leather bench seats and big chrome headlights, and Miles was struck with the feeling that it had been waiting in expectant silence for him to arrive.

  “Ain’t she a beauty?” said Baltinglass. “Morrigan, I call her. Bought her for a song off a margarine magnate who was on the skids.” He rummaged in the duffel bag and brought out a bottle of clear liquid. He uncorked the bottle and sniffed. “That’s the stuff,” he said. “Shame to waste it, but there’s no time to be looking for gas, and Morrigan was always partial to a drop of hard liquor.” He felt for the cap of the gas tank and unscrewed it, emptying the bottle into the tank. The fumes filled the garage, making Miles’s eyes water.

  “Will she run on that?” asked Miles, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

  “She’ll run on anything that burns,” said Baltinglass. “What’s more, anyone following us will get a noseful of that poteen and wrap themselves around the nearest tree in jig time.” He tossed the bottle over his shoulder and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Now,” he said, to the sound of shattering glass, “she just needs a slight adjustment, and away we go.”

  “What’s the slight adjustment?” asked Miles.

  “A driver, Master Miles,” said Baltinglass. “Won’t get far without a driver.” He rummaged in the trunk until he found a long white scarf, a flat cap and a pair of leather goggles.

  “Don’t you need to be able to see to drive?” asked Little.

  “Of course,” said Baltinglass of Araby. “Nothing wrong with your eyesight, I hope, Master Miles.”

  Miles looked at Baltinglass, and back at the enormous car. “I can’t drive that!” he said.

  “’Course you can, boy,” shouted Baltinglass. “She drives the same as any other car.”

  “But I’ve never driven a car,” protested Miles. “I’m only twelve. Besides, it’s against the law.”

  “Good point,” said Baltinglass. “That’s why you’ll need a disguise.” He held out the scarf, hat and goggles. “Put these on, then, and make it snappy. I’ll tell you what to do once you’re in the driver’s seat. It’s a piece of cake.”

  Miles put on the disguise doubtfully and climbed onto the bench seat. He felt very high up, and the car seemed to stretch for miles before and behind him. He put his hands on the enormous steering wheel and peered over the dashboard, trying to make himself feel some of Baltinglass’s confidence. He had always dreamed of driving a car, and despite his doubts his skin tingled with excitement. Baltinglass of Araby hauled open the garage door, then tapped his way back to the car, raising little puffs of dust with his cane.

  “Right so,” shouted the old man as he leaped into the passenger seat. “Put your hands on the wheel and your foot on the gas. Stand on the clutch . . . that’s the one on the left . . . and ease it out when I tell you. I’ll take care of the gears till you start to get the hang of it.” He turned on the ignition and the engine coughed loudly twice, then settled into a steady rhythm that sounded something like gol-gol-gol-gol-gol-gol-gol.

  Miles stared at the rectangle of November sunlight that led out into the world, feeling small in his oversize coat. He wondered how he had come to this point, sitting in the driver’s seat of an enormous car and carrying on his narrow shoulders the confidence of a blind explorer and the trust of a four-hundred-year-old girl.

  Morrigan’s engine idled patiently, and he knew that once he set her in motion there would be no turning back.

  “Well,” said Baltinglass, as though reading his thoughts, “the longest journey begins with a turn of the key. When you’re ready, Master Miles.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE DEPARTED AND THE LOST

  Morrigan in motion, spoke-wheeled and fly-spotted, barreled comfortably along the dusty road, heading for south and sea. In the driver’s seat Miles gripped the wheel tightly and peered through his goggles, concentrating on keeping clear of the ditches and hoping that the road would remain empty of other vehicles until he “got the hang of it,” as Baltinglass had put it. Behind him Little sang a driving song that harmonized perfectly with the engine, and in their wake small birds fluttered dizzily to the ground.

  They made good time along the highway, and after a while Miles began to feel more confident. His shoulders relaxed and he allowed himself to blink now and then. Under Baltinglass of Araby’s shouted tuition he learned to use the gearshift, and to slow down on the corners so that he no longer made the tires squeal and chickens and children dive for cover. The smile on his face grew and grew as Little’s song threaded its way through the morning and the car ate up the road like an insatiable beast. By midafternoon he felt like a king on a well-sprung throne.

  “Where are we now?” shouted Baltinglass of Araby, jerking out of one of his frequent naps.

  “We passed through Nape a little while ago,” said Miles.

  “Hah!” said Baltinglass, clapping his hands together. “A sterling effort, boy. Pull over when you see a shady spot and we’ll break out some vittles. My tongue’s as dry as a bushman’s ankle and I could eat a small bison on toast.”

  Miles pulled off the road and they rolled to a halt beneath a large oak tree. Baltinglass of Araby ha
uled the duffel bag from the trunk and before long they were eating tomato bread and vinegar fish, and washing the dust from their throats with parsnip wine. After so many hours of driving Miles could still see the ground rushing toward him, and he closed his eyes to rest them.

  “A Tiger’s Egg, eh?” said Baltinglass at length, wiping his wrinkled lips with his sleeve. “You’re full of surprises, Master Miles. Did you win it in a raffle?”

  “It belonged to my mother,” said Miles, sitting up. “At least, she had it on loan from the Fir Bolg. Have you heard of them too?”

  “’Course I have. Hairy little fellas. In fact, I made those ones up myself to liven up a quiet watch on board the HMS Calamity, if I remember rightly.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Miles. “I’ve met them.”

  Baltinglass pushed back his woolly hat and scratched his head. “Funny. Did you meet the three-eyed baboons who live underwater in a giant banjo?”

  “No,” said Miles.

  “Must have been those that I made up,” said Baltinglass. “So how did your mother persuade the Fir Bolg to part with a Tiger’s Egg?”

  “She made a deal with them,” said Miles.

  Little leaned over the back of the bench seat. “Did you find out what it was?” she asked, showering him with bread crumbs.

  “I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a secret,” said Miles hesitantly. He had been reading the diary his mother had kept when she met the Fir Bolg all those years ago, and though she had died when he was born he still felt a little uncomfortable at the idea of sharing its contents.

  “You can tell us,” said Little. “We won’t tell a soul.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me, boy,” yelled Baltinglass in a voice that could be heard half a mile away. “I can’t even remember what I had for supper last night.”

  “It’s hard to make out,” said Miles. “Her writing is strange, and she mixes in a lot of words and symbols that I don’t understand.” He felt inside his coat pocket, where Tangerine was tucked up with Celeste’s worn leather diary. He took it out and thumbed through the closely written pages. “The Fir Bolg can’t stand the light,” he said. “They’ve lived underground for as long as they can remember and can only come out on moonless nights. As far as I can tell, they asked my mother to find a way to cure them of their sensitivity to light so that they can live aboveground again.”

  “So that’s what they’re up to, the hairy little savages!” guffawed Baltinglass. “That would have the peasants locking their doors and windows, all right.”

  “Did she find out how to do it?” asked Little.

  “I haven’t gotten that far,” said Miles. “But I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure. She said there was a key to using the Tiger’s Egg.”

  “A key?” said Little. Her eyes shone. “Then you can learn to use it, Miles. Maybe you will be able to bring back your father.”

  Miles shook his head, a lump forming in his throat. His father had been transformed by the bungling Doctor Tau-Tau into The Null, a monstrous, hollow-eyed beast who lived in perpetual darkness, and at first the discovery of the Tiger’s Egg had given Miles hope that someday it might help him restore his father to his former self. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Celeste says in the diary that she will take the key to her grave.”

  “But we know where that is!” Little laughed, and way above them a skylark began to sing. “We can go to your mother’s grave in Iota and find the key.”

  “That’s not what she means,” said Miles. “When a person says that it means they’ll never tell their secret to anyone.”

  “That’s not what it says to me,” said Little. “If she says she’s taken it to her grave, then that’s the first place we should look.”

  “She may have a point there,” said Baltinglass of Araby, tossing the remains of their picnic back into the duffel bag. “A small detour can’t do any harm. You should see signs for Iota about another hour down the road. Fire the old girl up, there, Master Miles, and let’s be on our way.”

  Miles started Morrigan’s engine and made a rather jerky exit onto the road. For a while his concentration was taken up with driving the car. His shoulders ached from holding the wheel and he had pins and needles in his feet. Sunlight flashed between the tall poplar trees that lined the road, and dust had filled his eyes before he remembered to pull down the goggles. Still, the powerful engine at his feet gave him a thrill of excitement, and deep down he realized that he was happiest when he was speeding away from home with his closest friends, though danger snapped at their heels and nightmares might await them on the road ahead.

  Morrigan ate up the miles, and Miles drank in the sunlight and the breeze, and though he was sure that Little had misunderstood Celeste’s words he felt a seed of hope that he might after all find some clue to the mastery of the Tiger’s Egg that was his only chance of rescuing his father from lifelong darkness. The shadows lengthened toward evening, and Miles’s blind copilot dozed fitfully at the other end of the bench seat, waking now and then to shout such indispensable driving tips as “Watch out for crocodiles,” and “Step on it, boy; you’re driving like an old nun.”

  Just as he felt that his eyes would be glued forever in their sockets, Miles rounded a small hill that he thought he recognized. Sure enough, he could see ahead of him the red-tiled roofs of the town where he was born, and rising above the trees to their right was the church spire in whose narrow shadow his mother was buried. He braked the car gently and pulled into the picnic spot from which he and the policemen of Larde had set off through the trees in search of the escaped Null. He felt somehow bigger as he stepped down from the car, as though he had finally begun to grow into his oversize overcoat since starting out that morning. He shook the old man gently, knowing that waking Baltinglass was a dangerous task at the best of times, and skipped nimbly out of range as the old man snapped upright with a loud yell and swung his cane at the gremlins that haunted his sleep.

  “It’s all right,” said Little, putting her hand on his shoulder. “We’re here. This is Iota.”

  Baltinglass of Araby relaxed at once. “Lead the way, then,” he said, “and let’s see if the departed Celeste can shed some light on the lost Egg.”

  They threaded their way through the trees, the blind explorer, the boy and the Song Angel, until they reached the edge of the silent churchyard. There they stopped, and Miles peered into the gloom beneath the spreading yew tree where he knew his mother’s grave lay. The headstones crouched menacingly in the gathering twilight. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and even Little seemed unusually nervous.

  “What if Cortado and Tau-Tau have come here too?” she whispered.

  Baltinglass cupped his hand to his ear. “Can’t hear you, child,” he shouted, his customary bellow muffled by the dead silence of the churchyard. “Have you turned into a gnat?”

  “I said, what if Cortado and Tau-Tau are already here?” said Little in a slightly louder voice. “The Great Cortado might have found the same page while he had Celeste’s diary.”

  “I don’t think they’d come here,” said Miles. “Doctor Tau-Tau said Cortado wouldn’t be able to interpret the diary without his help, and to be honest I don’t believe Tau-Tau himself was able to make much out of it either.”

  “Whatever they want with the Tiger’s Egg, they’ve gone south to find it,” said Baltinglass.

  “My mother came from down south,” said Miles. “Across the water, the Bolsillo brothers said.”

  “Is that so?” said Baltinglass, rubbing his stubbly chin with a rasping sound. “You still got family there, Master Miles?”

  “I’ve never met any of them. She had a twin sister who used to visit her once a year, but after my mother died she never came back,” said Miles.

  “There’s your answer, then,” said Baltinglass, stepping out into the churchyard as though it were broad daylight. “They’ll be on their way to find Celeste’s sister so they can pick her brains about the Tig
er’s Egg. What was her name?”

  “Fabio said her name was Nura, but I don’t know if she even knows about the Egg,” said Miles. “My mother got it after she left home.”

  “Celeste will have told Nura about it,” said Little.

  “Without a doubt,” said Baltinglass of Araby. “And you can be sure Cortado has a plan up his sleeve for extracting whatever she knows. It won’t be good news for your aunt if he catches up with her.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  A MOURNFUL MONK

  Baltinglass of Araby, white-caned and woolly-hatted, tapped the granite headstone gently with the end of his stick. “This is the one, Master Miles?” he asked, in a tone softer than his usual bellow.

  “Yes,” said Miles.

  “Read it out to me,” said Baltinglass.

  Miles cleared his throat. “‘Celeste Mahnoosh Elham,’” he read. “‘What time has stolen, Let it be.’”

  “That’s a short epitaph,” said Baltinglass of Araby. He reached out again with his cane and swept it through the weeds that grew up around the headstone. “Watch your ankles,” he said. He slid the swordstick from inside his cane and aimed a deft swipe at the weeds, cutting them to their roots and knocking sparks from the granite. The plants tumbled, and Miles could see more writing that had been hidden behind them. He knelt down and peered at the words, tracing them with his finger as he read them out in the dusk.

  What time has stolen

  Let it be

  Power grows

  From two to three

  Embrace the fear

  And set soul free

  To drink the sun

  In place of me

  A stillness like a stopped clock filled the churchyard, softened only by the rasping of distant crows.

  “Not your standard epitaph, is it?” said a doleful voice. Miles and Little spun around to look for the speaker, and Baltinglass brandished his swordstick. “Who said that?” he bellowed.