Rainbow's End - Wizard

by Mitchell, Corrie

  He had outdone himself this morning; he wore purple Bermuda shorts and egg-yellow socks that reached halfway up his skinny calves. His green Reeboks were limited edition, and his dove-grey polo shirt, Dolce & Gabana. He was obviously aiming for the rugged look: he’d neither shaved nor combed his hair.

  ‘Good morning, Orson,’ she said.

  ‘Morning,’ he replied grudgingly; standing next to her with hands deep in his pockets, staring intently at the water.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, and then asked, ‘Are you well?’

  Orson gave her a suspicious glance, and then fixed his gaze on the cliff forming the pool’s opposite bank. ‘I’m all right,’ came the taciturn reply - and after a pause, a mumbled, ‘and you?’

  Her smile earned her another suspicious glare, and Ariana said, ‘I’m very well, thank you.’ She patted the rock beside her and asked: ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  Orson - with a few grunts and a groan - lowered himself next to her, and then sat studying the water, the sky, the willow, the finch…

  ‘You’ve had a quiet week,’ said Ariana. ‘At least where the children are concerned,’ she added and received another glare. She continued, her tone matter of fact. ‘While you and Tessie,’ Orson followed her eyes and for the first time, saw the dog sleeping in the shade of the Willow tree. ‘While the two of you have tried exhausting the stocks of the Bordeaux region,’ Ariana continued, ‘the rest of Rainbow’s End has been busy - believe it or not.’

  Orson refused to meet her eyes and took inordinate interest in the cliff wall again.

  ‘Joshi has been to see me.’ This bit of news was so monumental, that Orson - before he could stop himself - gaped at Ariana. She started grinning, but his look changed to another glare and she thought better of it.

  ‘And John,’ she said. Orson looked at the sleeping dog.

  ‘And Annie,’ said Ariana. Orson started fidgeting, then inspected his horny fingernails.

  ‘And Izzy,’ she added. He rubbed his wart.

  ‘And Thomas.’

  ‘Twice,’ said Orson.

  ‘Twice, yes,’ Ariana nodded. ‘We are, after all, hoping that he might start helping you - eventually take over from you…

  ‘Aren’t we?’ she asked when Orson stayed silent. The wart had gone purple.

  ‘Orson…?’ The old man mumbled something under his breath. ‘Is something wrong?’ Ariana asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Ariana.’ It was his first full sentence since getting there. He shook his head and repeated, ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know what?’ she asked, concerned.

  Orson looked at the young woman, and his grey eyes (clear today) were troubled. He told her about the previous night and his talk with Thomas. About the boy’s candour, his willingness to please, his honesty… He fell silent for a minute: gathering his thoughts before continuing.

  ‘He’s so… good, Ariana. So… so without guile. Without pretence. Like what you see is what you get: only that.’ He paused again, then added, softer, ‘Almost too good.’ He shook his grizzled head and looked away.

  There followed a long silence, and then Ariana asked, softly, ‘Too good to be true, Orson?’

  The old Traveller gave her a fleeting, surprised look, and nodded, his expression miserable.

  ‘You are afraid that he is too soft? That he may be hurt?’

  Another nod, barely perceptible, troubled.

  Ariana folded one leg under the other, and turned sideways so she sat facing him. They looked into each other’s eyes for a searching minute, and the Traveller’s were first to look away.

  ‘Orson?’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you trust me, Orson?’ The question was asked softly, and so serious that Orson glanced at Ariana with surprise.

  ‘Of course, I do.’ His tone was annoyed. He paused, then, offended: ‘You know better than to even ask me that.’

  Ariana nodded and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Then please know that what I’m about to ask you is not on some frivolous whim,’ she said. ‘It has to do with your private life and I do not ask it lightly.’

  The frown on his face got deeper and she continued: ‘It has to do with Rosie.’

  They had never discussed Rose’s leaving before, and Orson, puzzled, asked, ‘Rose? Roshalee?’

  Ariana nodded and he asked, ‘What could be so important sixteen years after she left Rainbow’s End, Ariana? She was almost forty-five then, and back on the Earth she would now be seventy-six.’

  The young woman looked at him in silence; her eyes said she knew, she understood, and Orson repeated, ‘Seventy-six, Ariana. I make the sums often enough.’ He turned from her, but Ariana didn’t need to see his face to feel his pain. It was as strong as on the day Rose left.

  She said, ‘Please bear with me Orson. I told you it’s very important. You will see why in a minute. I promise.’

  Orson kept his peace; moved his hands to under his legs and sat on them, shoulders hunched, looking forlorn.

  ‘You and Rosie saw each other back on Earth - in England, didn’t you?’ asked Ariana.

  Orson gave her a black look. ‘You’ve been inside my head, then?’ he accused. ‘You monitored me? Without my permission?’

  She squeezed his forearm - soothingly. ‘I haven’t monitored you since you were seventeen, Orson’, she said. ‘Not since you’ve asked me not to. You know that.’ Ariana paused. ‘Except for when you Travel; or when you call for help - like the last time. But you know that too,’ she added.

  ‘The reason I’m asking, and how I know about England, will become clear to you shortly. Just bear with me a minute longer.’ She squeezed again, harder. ‘Please?’

  Orson grunted and turned to the opposite bank again, his expression glum; tried skimming the water with the toes of his Reeboks and failed.

  ‘Yes, we saw each other,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Every time she went away?’

  ‘Every time except the last,’ he answered.

  ‘You never saw Rose after she left Rainbow’s End the last time?’ The Traveller shook his head, wretchedly; and Ariana felt him hurt. Felt his loneliness.

  Said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Orson - so sorry to have you go through this again… but are you sure?’

  He looked at her, angry; answered, ‘Of course I’m sure. How could I not be?’ He turned his head the other way, but Ariana still heard. ‘A part of my life ended then,’ he said then, very softly.

  Her hand moved to his shoulder and she shook it gently, persistently. When Orson turned back to her, she said, with a soft smile, ‘But another started.’

  He looked at her blankly, shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His voice gruff.

  ‘Not what, Orson. Who.’ Ariana’s eyes were dark-blue pools, her smile beautiful. She looked at the man who had served Rainbow’s End for so long, with love.

  ‘What are you talking about, Ariana?’ The Traveller frowned, impatient, and Ariana’s smile stretched even wider, waiting some seconds more, savouring her surprise.

  ‘I’m talking about Thomas,’ she said then. ‘Thomas Ross is the grandson of Roshalee Ross.’

  Orson gaped at her and she took another second before imparting the rest. ‘He’s also yours,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ The old man shook his head, incredulously. ‘No… it is not possible.’ Adamantly.

  ‘But it is, Orson,’ Ariana said. ‘Not just possible, but a fact.’ Her smile was brilliant.

  ‘Thomas Ross is your grandson.’

  *****

  Gary’s room was large. His bed was shaped like a space ship (its headboard a console of buttons), and he had a huge home entertainment system: Hi-Fi, Flat screen TV, DVD player, surround sound speakers; disco lights mounted against the walls and ceiling.

  He had a very sophisticated looking computer and a pinball machine that reminded of a space fighter.

  The windows - three of them - were open; they let i
n the noise of traffic and showed the Eiffel Tower, not a kilometre away.

  His bathroom was straight out of “Billionaire Homes”: the bath as big as a splash pool, a huge shower stall fitted with at least a dozen nozzles, basins and a toilet of gold. Mirrors on the ceiling and all the walls; except one, which had a magnificent view of the ocean.

  They listened to some of Gary’s favourite music, and the volume was set so high it caused the walls to vibrate. But it was all right: They were in Paris, after all…

  When Thomas got back to his own room, a yellow frame had been painted around the glitter-green name on his door...

  The cave was a hive of noise: doors opening and slamming on both sides of its long oval, children running in and out and talking and shouting; most of them on their way to the dining room in the back. He closed his door behind him and - as if by magic (which it was really) - everything was suddenly so quiet you could hear a pin drop; walked to his bed, turned around and slowly, spread-eagled, fell back onto its welcoming softness; lay looking at the ceiling, and thought about the afternoon.

  They (Gary and Thomas) went diving for treasure (real treasure), in the Golden - and Gem Pool; something Thomas had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined he would do.

  Each month Izzy took back to the Earth two buckets - one large and one small; the large contained gold nuggets, and the smaller, gems, as specified by him. This month he wanted rubies: not bigger than marbles, and as close to purple as possible. It was Gary’s job to fill these buckets, and this month he’d invited Thomas along. The afternoon had flown by; the buckets were full far too soon…

  There was a soft knock and Thomas got up to open his door. It was Big John, looking at Thomas with his twinkly-grey eyes. ‘The pirates are back from their treasure hunt, I see.’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘Successful?’ he asked.

  Thomas, smiling self-consciously, nodded and invited him in. It was snowing outside and John went straight to the window, where he stood staring at the white flakes falling.

  He looked at Thomas. ‘I love snow, you know,’ he said, ‘but I can honestly say I don’t miss it.’ His laugh was warm and happy. ‘With weather like Rainbow’s End’s, who would?’ He turned away from the window. ‘I am a messenger boy this afternoon, it seems. With a message - a request really, from our lady Ariana.’ John paused, letting his eyes travel over Thomas’ posters, then took a few steps closer and stopped at the foot of the bed. He stared at Merlin.

  ‘Always liked him,’ he said. ‘Knew his stuff.’ A dismissive sniff. ‘Not a patch on Orson, though…’ He turned to Thomas and saw the boy’s questioning look. ‘Sorry, Thomas, I got side-tracked for a moment there.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Anyway - Ariana asks that you come see her tomorrow night instead of tonight, and that you,’ John’s eyes crinkled, ‘present yourself to Orson’s cottage instead. Seven pm for dinner and drinks and please bring along your photo-album.’ He blew out the rest of his breath through bulging cheeks, and saw Thomas frown, his green eyes on the album lying on the bedside table next to which John sat.

  ‘Is this it?’ Big John picked up the leather-bound book and Thomas nodded.

  ‘May I?’ his visitor asked, and the boy nodded again.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  The first photo had John frown and look at Thomas, who had come over and was standing beside him. Thomas saw the question in his eyes, and said, ‘My grandmother.’ Big John nodded and turned the page, and the next, and the next… He looked for a long time at one of Rose - dressed in her Roma finery, with one hand on the mane of a beautiful black horse; and one of her and a small man in front of her “Gypsy Rose” wagon. When he closed the album at last, he sighed deep and long and seemed to wake from a trance; then looked at Thomas as if seeing the boy for the first time.

  ‘I see,’ he said then, enigmatically.

  ‘See what?’ The questioning look was back on Thomas’ face. ‘What does everybody see in my album? Why does everybody want to see it?’ Thomas asked. Puzzled.

  John stood and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezed softly. ‘Tonight, Thomas,’ he said. ‘All your questions will be answered tonight.’

  *****

  Five or six of the older boys had not yet given up for the day and were still trying to catch a horse. The bigger - and much faster animals - were grazing on and off and watching the boys with polite disdain; every now and then galloping off a hundred metres or so, then allowing the trapping attempt to start anew.

  Annie and Frieda were sitting on the bench to the left of the cave’s entrance, looking down the length of the magical valley. The two of them had seen the game between horses and children a thousand times over the years, but still found it amusing, and laughed at the antics of both sides. The horses ran off again, and in the lull that followed, Arnold came out of the cave, bearing a tray with two large milkshakes on it. Banana - Annie’s favourite, and strawberry - which was Frieda’s. The strawberry had a cherry set into its foamy centre and stood on a heart-shaped place mat.

  Arnold’s T-shirt read: “I am not overweight: I have a big bone structure”; he blushed painfully when both women thanked him for the unexpected, but welcome beverage, pulled in his stomach with a mighty effort, and stumbled back into the cave - blinded by love.

  Annie reached over, and softly squeezed the younger woman’s hand. ‘You really like him, don’t you, Frieda?’ she asked. Frieda - with a jerky nod, and a blush to match Arnold’s, quickly looked away.

  15

  There was an hour of daylight left when Thomas got to Orson’s cottage; sandals in one hand and photo album in the other; and crusty-brown boots of mud ending an inch above his ankles.

  Apart from being wide, the short wooden bridge spanning the small stream before the cottage was also low enough for Thomas to sit down on, and dunk his feet in the water below. Which is what he did; and while the swiftly flowing water washed the mud from his skin and between his toes, Tessie came down from the veranda to meet him. Thomas sat rubbing between her ears and softly told her what a beautiful dog she was; and she in turn, watched him with intelligent eyes and her Labrador grin. It wasn’t long before the last speck of mud swirled away between the mossy stones, and Thomas - on feet still wet - could slip back on his sandals. He walked off the small bridge and towards the cottage.

  It had a new chimney - far enough from the old one not to bother the owls; smoke was rising slowly from it into the clear air of another perfect day. He went up the steps and saw that all the windows were steamed up and impossible to see through; wonderful, familiar smells hung in the air.

  He knocked on the closed door, and it opened by itself; stepped through and a blast of cold air hit him. Into a winter’s day in England…

  Orson called a gravelly ‘close the door!’ from the kitchen and Thomas did, shutting out the summer. The cottage was chilly but cosy on the inside, and incongruously, the windows had snow falling outside. Their sills were piled high with the white stuff.

  The living room was totally different: the recliner had been replaced by two easy chairs and a comfortable looking couch, all facing a fire burning in a new grate under a new chimney. There were two small tables - one next to each of the easy chairs - and a few leather-covered footrests lay scattered on the thick, long-haired carpet covering the entire floor. Paintings of snow covered forests and mountains, and storm-tossed seas hung on the walls. Two lights, dimmed and recessed into the walls, as well as the fire, lent a cosy light to it all. The room was clean, and smelled of wood-smoke and aftershave lotion and other memories….

  A table at the far end of the lounge had space for six, but was set for only two…

  ‘Welcome, Thomas.’

  Thomas turned from watching the fire and had to stop himself from gaping. Orson stood just outside the long kitchen counter. He was dressed smart-casual: neat grey woollen trousers with a knife-edge crease, a cream coloured polo neck jersey and a navy blue dinner jacket. His shoes were black
lace-ups and shone like mirrors. His grey hair was neatly trimmed (and combed), and he’d shaved. He was watching Thomas’ reaction very closely, right eyelid at its usual half-mast.

  ‘So,’ he rasped, after a few seconds, and waved a hand down his front: self-consciously proud, but trying to hide it. ‘What do you think?’ He raised his eyebrow and waited.

  Thomas was at a momentary loss for words, then he stammered: ‘You look very…distinguished, sir.’ Orson’s eyelid went back to half-mast and he glared at the boy for a suspicious second. Then - seemingly satisfied with the response and what he saw, he nodded and said, knowing it was a lost cause, ‘Don’t call me sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Just looking at the old man made Thomas, in shorts, sandals and T-shirt, shiver. Orson saw it, pointed towards the back of the cottage, and said, ‘The spare bedroom is to your left. There are some fresh clothes on the bed that should fit you.’ He saw Thomas frown. ‘Annie gave them to me,’ he explained. ‘She said they’d fit.’ Almost accusingly, then, added, ‘Take a hot shower first, if you want.’

  The bedroom was newly added on and so was the bathroom (one of the shower stall taps still had its plastic wrapping). When Thomas had finished and was glowing pink with heat from the hot water, he got dressed in the new jeans, vest, checked woollen shirt and thick blue polo-neck jersey that lay neatly folded on the bed. There were also woollen socks and a pair of Nike running shoes. Annie had obviously been told of the weather expectations out Orson’s way, and Thomas was doubly grateful, for on top of being the right fit, the clothes were comfortable and warm.

  Supper was soup and tasted wonderful. Just as Grammy’s used to. Pea-green and thick; full of fatty pieces of meat and bits of bacon and potato-pieces. Almost a stew, but with enough liquid to dunk the butter-dripping, steaming-hot slices of homemade bread into. The two of them got through half the pot and almost a full loaf of bread, and there were a lot of questions and answers from both sides before they sat back, sated.