He’d asked John about it, and the big man had laughed. ‘Oh, he’s gone back,’ he said. ‘It’s the children who brought him here. They don’t know it, but it’s their wishes that made him come. Right now he’s back in Acapulco or Cape Town or Miami Beach, or wherever it is he came from, his ice-box empty and his pocket full of Euros; and absolutely no memory of the last hour.’
The huge man had looked at him and his eyes were serious. ‘Remember Thomas. Rainbow’s End is not just a place of dreams. It’s a place where dreams come true.’
His eyes turned twinkly again and he laughed. ‘Just don’t tell them,’ he said, lifting his chin towards the cricket pitch and its players.
They stood watching for a while longer, and Big John was reading his soggy ice cream wrapper when they were mobbed: all the children suddenly rushed in and grabbed the both of them by their arms, dragging and pushing them onto the pitch, begging them to join in the game. Laughingly, the giant turned to Thomas, and waving the wrapper in the air, he shouted, - ‘Rio! He was from Rio de Janeiro!’
And then, that night, there was supper, with a choice of pies: Cottage, Shepherds, Cornish, Steak and Kidney… The room seemed to stretch and get bigger, and more tables and chairs appeared out of nowhere as the number of diners grew…
The light went out when he thought about it, and the bed wobbled when he turned on his side. And Thomas slept; and dreamed of Grammy and home.
*****
Orson’s cottage…
They’d spent the afternoon sleeping and had just finished a huge meal of bully-beef and mash - their favourite meal; one they sometimes had more than once a day.
Replete, they were relaxing: Orson in his leather recliner and Tessie on her mohair rug. The huge flat-screen TV had been switched on and the DVD loaded. They were about to watch episode 8 in the first season of “Fawlty Towers” for the umpteenth time; they both enjoyed one of its scenes very much. Orson had both remote controls clutched in his hands when he remembered something.
Without thinking, he dropped the remotes and heaved himself from his chair, ending up on hands and knees on the floor. With a lot of dignity, he stood, and dusting his hands on the backside of his shorts (he wasn’t wearing a shirt), announced: ‘Time for a bit of grape, Tessa.’
He walked behind the counter that separated lounge and kitchen and opened the large, double-door fridge. It emitted a haze of cold and Orson craned forward to inspect its contents. It contained only two items: red wine and white wine - a lot of both. Orson, being different, drank his red wine chilled - the same as his white. Tessie, well… she liked whatever Orson liked.
He took two bottles of Château Ausone from one of the packed shelves and squinted at its label, then counted out loud - ‘five, eight, eleven…’ He looked at Tessie and said, ‘Not yet twelve years old, but it will have to do I suppose.’ Using a sophisticated corkscrew, he very professionally uncorked both bottles, left one on the long counter to breathe (just for a little while), and took the other into the lounge. He splashed half of its contents into Tessie’s bowl, before upending the bottle into a sticky beer-mug on the small table next to his chair; then took the empty bottle, turned it upside down, and forced it into the already overflowing rubbish bin stood next to the front door. He returned to his chair then, and after picking up the remotes from the bile-green carpet, crawled back onto its leather-padded comfort; picked up his wine, said “Cheers old girl”, and pressed play.
A small whine of acknowledgement, and Tessie began lapping at her extremely expensive wine. A minute later a soft burbling sound was heard and a terrible smell filled the room. Orson sat up straight, pale with shock and gasping for breath, then turning green at the gills and hopping off his chair once more. He ran for the door and fresh air, and from there stood screaming: ‘You ugly old, horrible, disgusting, ill-mannered bitch!!!’
6
Izzadore Greenbaum (call me Izzy) was waiting for the sun. He didn’t mind. His new lorry’s cab was very comfortable - all leather and chrome and polished wood. Its seat fitted his skinny body like a soft glove and Bruch’s Violin Concerto No.1 played softly on its excellent music system. He had chosen today because of the weather forecast (it said clear skies), and because it was a Sunday - a normally quiet day.
The lorry stood parked in a small, cement-slabbed parking lot that Izzy had used on numerous previous occasions. It was always empty, and on the one or two occasions his presence had been queried by a patrolling bobby, a small “push” had quickly and quietly gotten rid of him.
The sun was already out, but still low and hiding behind the bank of grey mist and smog lining the horizon. It would be clear in five minutes, but Izzy gave it fifteen. He relished the wait, and the stronger the sun, the brighter the colours and the better the trip. He glanced at his watch and gave a small smile. He was one of the richest men in Europe and he wore a five Pound plastic watch. No matter. It - and the truck - would be useless in just a few minutes. He folded his forearms across the steering-wheel and rested his chin on them, watching the horizon and waiting; enjoying the music and the fresh breeze that wafted through his open window.
‘Mister?’ The small voice caused Izzy to jerk with surprise and sit up straight; actually glancing at the empty seat beside him. ‘Mister?’ The call came again - from his right, and he leaned through the lowered window, frowning.
She was tiny. Her hair was a bush of awry copper, her nose a puggy little thing, her face was streaked with tears and dirt, and although it was not as cold as the previous week, she was still not dressed warmly enough. Izzy never hesitated: he opened the driver’s door and swung his skinny legs out, clambered to the ground.
She couldn’t have been more than three and stood in a small puddle; her little toes in their open-topped sandals were blue with cold. Izzy didn’t mind in the least, but knelt in the wet in front of her, gently took her small shoulders in his large, bony hands, smiled and said, ‘Well, hello there, pretty girl.’ Kneeling like that, he could see under the lorry, and there was no one else around. ‘Are you lost?’ he asked
She shook her head, mutely, and Izzy said, still smiling, ‘Well, where’s my manners? My name is Izzy. Do you have one? A name, I mean…?’ She nodded but stayed silent.
‘And would you like to tell me what it is then?’ he asked, gently.
She bit her lower lip and nodded, said, ‘Margaret’, softly, and then added; ‘Maggie…’ Her small voice was tired and despondent and carried all the weight of the world.
‘Where’s your mommy, Maggie?’ Izzy asked.
Her eyes were the colour of pansies, they hurt and they brimmed and then they overflowed, and Izzy pulled the little girl against his chest.
She cried then - great hiccupping sobs that were too big for her; they hacked and tore at her little frame and Izzadore Greenbaum’s soul. He held her, shuddering and shaking for a long minute, soothing and reassuring her in a soft voice; and only when he felt her calm down and mumble something into the wet material of his thick woollen shirt, did Izzy hold Maggie at arm’s length, and ask her to say again. Her eyes were washed a brilliant purple-blue and she used the trailing end of her over-long jersey sleeve to wipe her tears and runny nose; succeeding only in leaving a wide smear of goo on hundreds of tiny freckles.
She said, ‘I think Mommy’s sick again…’ She gave an after-sob and a small hiccup. ‘She won’t talk to me.’ Her eyes started brimming again and she rubbed them with a small fist.
‘Will you take me to her?’ Izzy asked, and Maggie nodded, eagerly; glad to the point of forgetting her wet knickers at finding someone to help her mother. She took his sleeve, and with small steps led him around the lorry’s front; to a bus-shelter he hadn’t noticed before, not twenty metres away.
The young woman, somewhere in her early twenties, had been pretty not so long ago. Her blonde hair was unwashed, and like Maggie’s, unkempt. She wore a baggy jersey and blue jeans, and a plastic bag filled with crumpled clothing and odds and ends, stood be
tween her worn out tennis shoes. Her eyes were only half-open and glassy, and her skin pasty-grey. Izzy knew she was dead before he touched her, but put two fingertips on her carotid artery anyway. She was already cold and he stood back, looking at her with pity and sorrow, and thinking of what to do.
And suddenly the sun was out: it made sparks in Maggie’s unruly copper curls and chased the shadows from her eyes, and made Izzy wish he was any place but there.
He saw them then. They came out of an alley between two shops, pushing their way through packed and overflowing rubbish bins; their black clothes and silence immediately denoting them as being different. There were four and they were less than a hundred metres away, and stood talking for a few seconds before starting towards him and Maggie.
Izzy didn’t - couldn’t wait. He picked up Maggie and ran. Back to the lorry and around its front; handed the little girl up through the still-open driver’s door and onto the soft leather seat; scrambled up after her and picked her up again, half throwing her on the seat next to his; slammed the door and plucked the keychain from the ignition; then stuck his arm out of the window, and wildly began swinging it; the crystal at its end sparkling and flashing in the crisp, sun filled morning air.
In his side mirror and he could see them - running towards the lorry and very close; and then falling over one another trying to stop, and scrambling away on hands and feet. The air was breaking and filled with multi-coloured circles that danced and crackled and hummed, and Maggie was shrieking and covering her eyes and ears; then everything seemed to explode in a blinding white flash and the truck was gone…
The concrete slab on which it had stood was sucked clean, looking as if it had been poured just the day before.
*****
Thomas was back in his own room and it was snowing - the large casement windowsill was piled high with it. It was cold and the light outside a gloomy grey, his polished desk just a dark silhouette on the inside. He rolled onto his back; scenes and faces from “The Lord of the Rings” and “King Arthur” reflected dully from posters on the walls, and above his bed, Merlin was leaning on his staff and giving him that familiar, benevolent gaze.
He turned back on his side and burrowed deeper under the heavy quilt. It had all been a dream then… Rainbow’s End and Orson, and Tessie and Big John; the cave, Annie and Frieda, and… A soft knock on his door and Annie came in, wearing sheep-skin slippers and a voluminous terrycloth robe.
She carried a tray steaming with breakfast, said a cheery “good morning, Thomas”, and placed it on the foot of his bed, then stood back, hands on her hips and looking out the window at the falling snow.
‘I was expecting this,’ she sighed.
*****
The weeping willow’s dangling branches were leaking slow drops of water onto the loamy soil beneath. As on every day, it had rained between three and four, and the sun - only out for an hour - had not yet taken the wet from the grass and other plants. The birds were rested; they played and flew and made loud conversation, looking for breakfast. Rainbow’s End smelled fresh and clean.
Big John was sitting on the Talking Rock - the name they’d given the flat rock jutting over one side of Ariana’s Pool. She sat next to him and he watched her face, thinking what a beautiful young woman she was.
‘I would like to see him John.’
‘I thought you might,’ he said, then, ‘Tomorrow night, all right?’
Ariana nodded, looking at him. ‘You know he’s a Traveller, don’t you?’
Big John nodded. ‘Orson told me.’
‘Have you spoken to the boy?’ Ariana asked, and he nodded.
‘I’ve sort of jumped the gun,’ he said. ‘I’ve told him about Rainbow’s End… how it’s different from the Earth… He has so many questions…’
‘Have you told him about me?’
‘No.’ John shook his head.
‘Are you going to?’
He looked at Ariana, frowning. ‘Do you want me to?’ he asked.
It was her turn to frown, and after a few seconds: ‘Maybe just a little… to prepare him. I don’t want him to be scared when he gets here.’
‘I don’t think he will be,’ John said, ‘but I’ll tell him. As much as I think is necessary…’ He got up.
‘John?’
‘Yes, Ariana?’
‘What do you think of him, John? Of Thomas?’
The big man stood silently for a minute, the sun warm on his face and a breeze playing with his beard; knowing what she really meant, thinking before he answered.
Then, ‘I think he’ll stay, Ariana.’
*****
The lorry was creaking and groaning and the cab jerked and shuddered like an ancient roller-coaster being pulled to the top of its track. The wind roared through the open window on Izzy’s side, but it was too late to close it - its mechanism was already damaged beyond repair. He turned and looked through the small window at his back, at the load-bed behind. There were plastic-wrapped packages flying everywhere; green, black, yellow and red ones. Small and smaller ones; big ones and bulky ones; short ones and long ones. Square ones… (Orson’s).
Maggie was sleeping and Izzy tried covering her with his floating-around-the-cab jacket, but it kept drifting off and he gave up. The lorry had turned sideways. It broke three, sometimes four colours of the rainbow, and Izzy reflected on the physics. One colour was best; two was all right, but only for a short time; three or more meant death. ‘To man or machine,’ he thought to himself, watching the vehicles long gear-lever disappear, then re-emerge from the roof of the cab; the expensive radio seemed to melt, and then rearrange itself into something resembling a toaster.
*****
They had crossed several small streams and Thomas had eventually - after Big John reassured him that there were no thorns at Rainbow’s End - taken off his muddy wet sandals. He walked barefoot, swinging the sandals from the fingers of one hand. The cool, smooth rocks and loamy soil felt good under his feet and he felt delighted horror as thick brown mud pushed and squelched and bubbled between his toes.
The forest seemed different here: denser and older. Mossy green splashes grew in dark shady places, and Thomas saw several rings of snowy-white mushroom pods sprout and spray in loamy brown hollows. The trees were massively thick and ancient - some with weird and wonderful shapes, and he wondered about the tales and secrets they would tell, if they could…
‘Just this one more stream,’ Big John said. It was slightly wider and had a small wooden bridge, almost as broad as it was long. The large man stopped in its middle and said, ‘This used to be a hanging-bridge, but Orson - and Tessie - fell off it so many times that he changed it.’ He waved a hand at its width - ‘And made it wide enough to accommodate his trolley…’ Smiling wryly, ‘I liked the old one more.’ A shrug. ‘It fit in better.’
They walked on, down and off the small structure. The cottage was only twenty metres or so in front of them, and John stopped. ‘Orson’s place,’ he said softly, and put a finger on his lips, minding Thomas to be quiet.
It stood on stilts and was built of logs, in the shade of several trees. Vines and ferns and ivy, and curtains and ropes of gossamer green festooned its roof and walls, making it a part of the living forest. Four wooden steps led onto a long open veranda, and Thomas saw a hammock suspended low above its floor. Several empty bottles stood or lay around, waiting to be cleaned up.
The front door protested softly when Big John pushed it open, and he almost fell over a rubbish bin overflowing with empty tins and more bottles when he turned and gestured to Thomas to follow.
The room was a mess and a dreadful smell hung in the air. Empty glasses and bottles and beer mugs stood everywhere, with dust and dirt on everything except the huge television - which showed a snowy test-screen.
Orson was sunk into a leather recliner, snoring and hiccupping as Thomas had last heard him do at Broken Hill. He wore only a pair of Bermuda shorts, and what looked to be the same orange socks of four days a
go. His hands and arms lay spread to the sides, and Thomas watched in fascination as the wart (now, liver-coloured) next to his red-veined and bulbous nose, trembled and jumped in cadence with the loud, sawing sounds issuing from his wide-open mouth.
Tessie lay sprawled on a moth-eaten but obviously expensive rug. She never woke when John prodded her with one big foot; instead, let go a thunderous fart, so foul it sent the two visitors rushing outside, gasping for fresh air.
*****
‘Snow!’ Frieda sounded incredulous.
Annie nodded and her eyes were troubled. The two of them were walking to the Rainbow Pool; strolling really, just looking at everything and enjoying the day.
She said, ‘I don’t know who he left on the other side, Frieda. He hasn’t talked about it yet.’ She paused to pick a deep-red rose from one of the hundreds of thornless rosebushes growing wild all over, and inhaled its scent, before pushing its stem into the hair above Frieda’s left ear, arranging the younger woman’s hair around it. ‘But whoever it is, he misses him, or her, or them, very much.’ She frowned and her expression turned thoughtful. ‘He brought a photo-album with him. Maybe… I think I’ll look in on him tonight.’
The children saw them coming and some left the water, running to meet them, clutching and touching at their summer-dresses and their hands; all jabbering at the same time. The two women laughed and joked, and held their hands and twirled and danced with them until they reached the pool’s bank; then Annie stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, loud enough to put a stationmaster to shame. Frieda and she began gesturing and waving at the children still in the water to come out, and the disappointment on their faces made Annie laugh.
Rainbow's End - Wizard Page 6
