Battle of the Beasts

by Chris Columbus

  “What’s going on?” yelled Real Brendan. “Why can’t you hear me?!”

  But then College Brendan heard the bedroom door slam open. Someone had barged into the room.

  It was Scott Calurio.

  Scott looked different too. Better. He had grown in height but more noticeably in the shoulder area. He wore a polo shirt under a varsity jacket, with jeans that weren’t too tight or too loose.

  “Hey, roomie,” Scott barked at College Brendan.

  “Scott Calurio’s my college roommate?!” Real Brendan said to himself, in total shock.

  “Did you finish my bio paper?” said Scott.

  “Yep,” said College Brendan, handing the ten freshly printed pages to Scott, who shoved them into his pants pocket and grabbed College Brendan by the front of his shirt.

  “This one better be good,” said Scott.

  “It is,” said College Brendan. “You’ll definitely get a good grade.”

  “Better be an A,” said Scott, tightening his grip on Brendan’s shirt. “Not like last time.”

  “Last time you got an A minus,” said Brendan.

  “My parents want A’s!!!” screamed Scott. “They see a minus on my report card and they drop my allowance!! And you know what happens if they drop my allowance?!”

  “No—”

  “I drop a fist in your face!”

  “Well, no worries,” said Brendan, visibly shaking. “Y-y-you’ll definitely get an A on this one!”

  And then Scott shoved Brendan in the chest, knocking Brendan to the floor.

  Real Brendan ran over to his college counterpart, stood over him, and shouted: “What is wrong with you?! Why are you being such a coward? Such a little wimp? Get up and fight back!”

  But College Brendan didn’t move. He just stayed on the floor, looking up at Scott in fear.

  “Time for you to get lost, Walker,” said Scott.

  “W-What?” asked Brendan. “But it’s past two a.m. . . . I’ve been working on your paper for the last six hours and I got an early class. I just want to go to sleep—”

  “And I just want to party,” said Scott. “I got a bunch of friends comin’ over, and the last thing they wanna see is your sorry face!”

  “Can’t I just get into my bed, pull the covers over my head?” asked College Brendan. “I’ll put on my headphones . . . you guys won’t even know I’m here—”

  “Everybody’s gonna know you’re here because you smell like loser sweat and Cheeto breath,” said Scott. “Okay. Fine. We coulda done this the easy way. But I guess you’re gonna make me do this the hard way.”

  Scott turned, opened the door, and sprinted into the hallway. He came back a few seconds later, holding a large red fire extinguisher.

  He pointed it at College Brendan.

  “Wait, Scott!” protested Real Brendan. “Don’t—”

  Scott pulled the fire extinguisher trigger and fired a powerful stream of white foam at College Brendan. He started at Brendan’s face, then continued to spray downward, soaking his shirt, jeans, and sneakers. College Brendan ran to the door, trying to escape. But Scott chased after him and kept firing.

  College Brendan made it into the hallway, but the thick, dripping foam made the soles of his shoes slippery. He slipped and fell to the floor.

  Giggling sadistically, Scott continued to spray College Brendan, who was in the middle of a growing puddle of foam.

  “Scott, please, stop . . . mmmmmppphhhh,” pleaded College Brendan, who was coughing, choking on the foam.

  Students were now coming out of their rooms, pointing and laughing at College Brendan, who was writhing on the floor, covered in white foam. He looked like a living, melting snowman.

  Real Brendan rushed up, trying to punch and kick Scott to make him stop, but he was just a ghost; he couldn’t help his older self.

  Suddenly, the scene froze. “Have you seen enough?” the Wind Witch asked, stepping into the room.

  “This is what happens after I go home?! I go to the same college as Scott? And we’re roommates? And he humiliates me in front of everybody in my dorm?”

  “Yes,” said the Wind Witch, “it’s one possible future for you. Are you ready to see another?”

  She turned, walked toward the closed Exit stairway door, and passed right through. Brendan, who wanted desperately to get out of here, didn’t hesitate. He walked to the door, passed through himself—and stepped onto Emperor Occipus’s viewing area at the Roman Colosseum.

  “What . . . ?” Brendan asked.

  The roar of the crowd surrounded him. It was midmorning; the sun made everything sparkle; the smell of dust and sweat and food tickled Brendan’s nose and brought back his best memories of Rome. He was floored by the breathtaking view, which let him see not only the Colosseum arena, but all the people in their togas, talking and cheering and laughing.

  The Wind Witch was standing beside him, pouring a drink for the emperor, who lay in a hammock watching the games. She winked at Brendan, who came around to see.

  The emperor was him.

  “Emperor Walker,” the Wind Witch said to this older version of Brendan, “would you like any grapes dipped in honey?”

  Emperor Brendan nodded as Real Brendan took a moment to marvel at his adult body. Draped in royal robes, he looked fantastic, toned and muscular, as if he worked out for hours every day and got plenty of sleep every night. Golden necklaces, full of bright gems, hung from his neck.

  “I never really wanted to wear jewelry,” Real Brendan told the Wind Witch, “but that stuff looks cool.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” said the Wind Witch. “If you choose to rule with me, you will have power over all worlds. Which means you can do things like . . . ah. Here we go.”

  Horns blasted in the arena. The crowd cheered. Real Brendan heard the black gate rising below him. Then he saw two lions coming forward, roaring and shaking their manes.

  “Are those . . . ? Hey, those are my lions!” Real Brendan said.

  The lions were quickly joined by two polar bears, and all four beasts lumbered forward to their target in the middle of the arena.

  Scott Calurio.

  He looked up pitifully, dressed in rags. Tears ran down his cheeks. He was shaking with fear.

  “Emperor Brendan,” shouted Scott. “Please spare me! I will be your faithful servant . . . for the rest of my life . . . if you would only save me!”

  Emperor Brendan, tight-lipped, raised his fist in a thumbs-down. The crowd went wild. Real Brendan could see, on his emperor counterpart’s face, the immense satisfaction that was about to result from seeing Scott Calurio torn limb from limb. Real Brendan hated himself for it, but he understood the feeling, and the adulation that came from the crowd. It was like he was singing Bruce Springsteen all over again. He was loved. Infinitely loved.

  The lions and polar bears rushed Scott—and Real Brendan turned away.

  He was suddenly ashamed of the idea that he could enjoy seeing Scott Calurio hurt. What had he wished for in Rome? That this kind of stuff would stop. No matter what Scott did to him in high school or college, he didn’t deserve to die for sport. Brendan turned and moved toward the back of the viewing area, where he suddenly saw a glowing door, as the Wind Witch yelled, “No! Wait!!”

  Back at the Door of Ways, Eleanor couldn’t bear to see her brother disappear. She rushed forward past the Wind Witch—who was curiously silent and still, as if her mind had been transported to another place—and entered the shimmering light with her eyes closed, yelling, “Bren! Come back—”

  Eleanor found herself at a funeral.

  She was in a cemetery, under maple trees. The grass was perfectly manicured. A tentlike structure with a white canvas top stood over a grave, where a coffin covered with bright flowers was ready to be lowered into the ground. Standing next to it was an elderly priest, who said, “And we know that Dr. Walker loved his family most of all. . . .”

  “No!” Eleanor yelled. “Dad!”

 
She rushed forward and saw the people at the funeral sitting in fold-up metal chairs. There was a carpet of fake grass on top of the real grass. In the front row were Brendan, Cordelia, and herself, looking only a few months older than she did now, along with her sobbing mother.

  “Oh no . . . no . . . ,” Real Eleanor said. “This doesn’t really happen!”

  But Mrs. Walker looked as if it were happening. Her face was a blotchy red mess. Her children bunched into her, trying to give her some strength, but they were crying themselves.

  Eleanor—Real Eleanor, not Funeral Eleanor—saw the Wind Witch float across the cemetery over an angel mausoleum. She got up and ran to her angrily, but the Wind Witch grabbed her and comforted her.

  “Shh, my darling. This isn’t how it has to be.”

  “You monster!” Eleanor screamed, wrestling herself out of the Wind Witch’s arms. “You killed my father!”

  “I didn’t kill him. He did that to himself.”

  “What?”

  “The gambling . . . it only gets worse. And within a few months, he gets in some trouble with some very bad people . . . and this is how it ends.”

  “No! Mom won’t be able to handle it!”

  The Wind Witch sighed. “That’s true. Your mother snaps and ends up in a psychiatric hospital. And you go and live with him.”

  The Wind Witch pointed at a man dressed differently from the other mourners. They wore black and sat with erect postures, but this man was slouching, almost as if he was bored, in a brown coat, with wild, curly hair, a Hawaiian shirt, and cowboy boots. He glanced back, making sure no one was looking at him. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bottle, and took a long drink.

  “Uncle Pete? No! I can’t live with Uncle Pete. He’s the worst.”

  “With your father dead and your mother unable to care for you, he becomes your legal guardian.”

  “But he spends all day drinking and watching old game shows on TV! He lives in a trailer . . . in the desert! I can’t live with him!”

  “Then let me show you another way.”

  The Wind Witch waved her hand, causing the ground below her to crumble into itself. Within a few seconds it was a gaping hole, and both she and Eleanor fell through, below the brown earth, past muddy walls . . . into a blue sky.

  They were free-falling.

  Eleanor squinted. The blue was so bright that it seemed to cut her. She was somewhere with pure air and sunlight and a wonderful fresh smell, but she was dropping fast.

  “What?—Are you?—What’s happening—?”

  Eleanor landed on something soft.

  It was a beige platform with a ridged, bouncy floor. If Eleanor pressed her hand into it, her hand came back. Almost like . . . She looked down . . .

  “Fat Jagger!”

  The colossus, six hundred feet tall, sat on top of a hill surrounded by a beautiful medieval festival. He was holding up his palm, and Eleanor was in it with the Wind Witch. Below were streamers and horses and knights jousting and vendors selling sausages and a sparkling lake. Next to Eleanor inside Fat Jagger’s palm was another version of herself.

  Princess Eleanor.

  Fat Jagger moved his massive finger toward Princess Eleanor and stroked her cheek. “Walk-er.” He looked up with his humongous eyes. He clearly loved Princess Eleanor—and Real Eleanor didn’t think she looked bad either.

  Princess Eleanor wore a golden crown with three rows of gems: ruby, diamond, and sapphire. She held a silver scepter with a crystal horse carved at the top of it. Real Eleanor couldn’t talk to Princess Eleanor—just the way Brendan couldn’t talk to College Brendan—but she could see her beauty and poise. Princess Eleanor was the young woman Eleanor had always wanted to be: graceful, smart, and kind. Plus she was sitting above everyone else, in the hand of Fat Jagger.

  “This is what happens if you stay with me,” said the Wind Witch. “And this is only a small part of what I can give you. You are my blood, little one. And I want you to be happy.”

  “How . . . how do I choose?” Eleanor asked. Although she knew the Wind Witch was evil, this was not an easy decision: Go back to the real world with all the tragedy there, or stay here with Fat Jagger? Who in their right mind would choose the real world?

  “Just say yes,” the Wind Witch said, “and I will give you all of this. And so much more. Or you can go back through that door . . . into pain.”

  Eleanor looked up and saw the portal she had fallen through.

  It was a black square cut out of the sky, leading back to the funeral. Eleanor could just see the green of the trees up there. And she had an idea.

  “Fat Jagger! I don’t trust the Wind Witch. I trust you. Can you put me where I’m supposed to be?”

  “What are you doing?” asked the Wind Witch. “That ugly brute can’t hear you!”

  “Jagger! Please!” Eleanor said. “If you sit here, I’ll join the Wind Witch, but if I’m not supposed to, just use your hand like an elevator . . . and put me through the door!”

  “You’re wasting your time,” said the Wind Witch. “He’s a total fool!”

  All of a sudden Fat Jagger turned, narrowed his eyes, and growled. The Wind Witch looked surprised: “How are you hearing me?”

  The giant started getting to his feet.

  “He heard me!” Eleanor called. “He’s listening!”

  “Impossible,” said the Wind Witch.

  Now Jagger was standing at full height. He raised his hand toward the hole in the sky. And Eleanor—the real one—was able to jump off and grab the lip of the hole, pulling herself back up through the dirt, grabbing roots and rocks to climb into the funeral. And Fat Jagger looked up at the hole himself, his expression a mixture of fascination . . . and extreme curiosity.

  Cordelia was standing petrified in front of the Door of Ways, unsure of what to do after seeing her brother and sister disappear. The Wind Witch—who had been in some kind of catatonic state—came back to her senses and beckoned her forward.

  “Don’t you think it’s time we were together?” she said. “I won’t hurt you, Cordelia. You were always my favorite.”

  Cordelia walked forward, barely in control of her feet, and passed into swirling brightness.

  She found herself in a kitchen.

  She was standing by the table, which wasn’t a very nice table. It was chipped and wobbly, with a folded newspaper propped underneath one leg. In fact, the entire kitchen, and the small apartment it was attached to, was tattered and dingy.

  Cordelia saw herself standing by the stove.

  The Cordelia she saw was fifteen or twenty years older, with a drawn, defeated look on her face. Real Cordelia didn’t know what else to call this version of herself besides “Old Cordelia.”

  Old Cordelia opened the stove, releasing a hot chemical smell. Real Cordelia knew it was the scent of fish sticks. She had always hated fish sticks. She once told her mom, “No species of animal should be made into a stick.”

  But here in this dim, messy kitchen, Old Cordelia was dutifully picking the fish sticks up with tongs, trying to get the bits of fried batter that stuck to the pan, and putting them on a plate.

  A man came into the kitchen.

  It was Tim Bradley, from Bay Academy Prep.

  He was different now, of course—a man, not a boy, still handsome but seedy, and chunky, with a few days of beard and an old Metallica concert T-shirt. But he was definitely the same guy.

  He looked at Old Cordelia and said, “Mmm, nice. Fish sticks. My favorite.”

  “I married him?” Real Cordelia cried.

  “You did,” the Wind Witch said, materializing from the fridge like a mist. “This is your ‘happily ever after.’”

  “There’s no way I marry the first guy who asks me out,” Cordelia said. “Why would I do that?”

  “You don’t immediately marry him, silly. But you date him after you become class president. You have quite a wonderful high-school career.”

  “Did you get my Red Bulls?” Tim ask
ed Old Cordelia.

  “You get into a good college,” said the Wind Witch. “But Tim doesn’t. He drags you down. You think you love him, you make sacrifices for him, and your political career goes away. Now your only chance is to take law classes at night school.”

  “Hey, Cordelia,” said Tim excitedly, “we got a big week ahead of us. Friday’s bingo night. And Saturday we’re going to a NASCAR race.”

  “This is not my future,” Real Cordelia said. “This can’t be.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” said the Wind Witch. “Would you like to see another?”

  The Wind Witch opened the fridge. Inside, Cordelia saw luscious green hills, arrows flying through the air, and handsome knights on horseback.

  “What is that?” Cordelia asked, and in answer, the Wind Witch took her hand—Cordelia felt a bit of desperation in her touch—and pulled her through the fridge into a field of battle.

  Two armies attacked each other under the burning sun. One was dressed in black, the other in blue, each yelling orders and firing arrows and slashing and charging and regrouping. It looked like the battle that had taken place at the Wind Witch’s castle in Cordelia’s last adventure, but with more pomp and circumstance. There were streamers and war drums and trumpeters.

  “This is one of your great victories,” the Wind Witch told Cordelia. The two of them stood directly in the center of the battle, but it raged around them without leaving a scratch. “Your forces are in blue. You fight for your kingdom—one of many you rule. In the worlds we create together, you are second only to me.”

  “I’m a general?” Cordelia asked.

  “Think more . . . Joan of Arc,” said the Wind Witch.

  Warrior Cordelia appeared and charged into battle.

  She looked nothing like the lost and trapped woman who had pulled fish sticks from the oven. She sat on top of a regal horse whose hair had been painted blue to match her armor. She looked like she belonged on a stamp! She wore her hair short, tightly cropped, with blue streaks. She galloped down a hill with a banner held high, screaming, “For glory!” Real Cordelia felt proud to see herself this way—but also a little scared.