‘Heather.’ Orson’s voice was kind, and when she looked back at them, so were his eyes.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not without Scooter.’ Her knuckles on the collar were white.
The old Traveller looked to Thomas hopefully, but no help was forthcoming from that source - the younger Traveller had his hands in his pockets, and was studying an invisible speck somewhere on the horizon.
‘All right, then,’ he said to the girl, ‘bring your dog, but let’s just go.’ Looking at the sun, and glaring at Thomas.
The four of them walked to the centre of the backyard, the girl puzzled, and not just a little perturbed; having no idea of what was to come, and not letting go of the dog’s collar for one second.
‘You do it,’ Orson said to Thomas. The young Traveller held his hand up high and twirled his crystal at the sun. It sparkled and cast a hint of red, and coloured circles started dancing in the air. A loud clap of sound, and a brilliant white light sucked them into the air. They Travelled.
*
The darkness on the veranda was challenged by a solitary candle, standing in a saucer on the wooden rail. The night air smelled warm and sweet and the two Travellers - grandfather and son - were sitting in companionable silence, each with a large plate of mashed potatoes, bully-beef and pepper sauce; Thomas’ first try at this particular delicacy, ala Orson. Tessie lay off to one side. She’d had hers and was softly snoring. They both ate with gusto and when finished, their plates lifted off and flew, and in a clatter of breaking china, dumped themselves into a rubbish bin somewhere inside the cottage.
Thomas sighed and sat deeper into his very comfortable chair.
‘Orson?’
‘Mmh?’ The old man gave a satisfying burp and said ‘Scuse me.’
‘I know a Traveller’s crystal enables him to Travel, but Joshi said it makes him stronger as well. How?’ Thomas asked.
Orson picked something out of his teeth with a fingernail, and sat studying it for a few seconds, before asking, ‘How does it make him stronger, you mean?’
‘Uh-huh.’
The small man’s chair rotated by itself until he faced the boy.
‘Take out your crystal and lay it on your left palm,’ he said.
It hung from a chain around Thomas’ neck, and he pulled it from under his T-shirt and over his head, then lay it gently on his upturned palm.
Orson nodded. ‘Keep your hand open,’ he said, then - ‘now hold your right hand next to it, also palm-up.’
It left Thomas with both arms stretched out in front of him, hands turned palm-up, the crystal on his left.
‘Relax, Thomas,’ Orson said, ‘and remember - you are holding the Red Crystal, the Earth Crystal. In this case, it will not strengthen your control over its associated element, it will merely strengthen your inner power; yourself. To really increase your control - your power over fire - you need the Orange, or a higher crystal.’ The boy nodded, and sat back in his chair again, bending his elbows.
‘Now look at the candles flame,’ said Orson. Thomas did. ‘Imagine that flame floating above your right palm. Like this,’ Orson held out one of his hands and a ball of flame appeared a foot above it. ‘It is not difficult,’ he said. ‘Just imagine it, as if it were an everyday thing... Nothing earth shattering.’ His voice was soft, mesmeric.
There was a sputtering puff above his own hand and Thomas jerked, leaving just a wisp of smoke and the smell of sulphur.
‘Again,’ Orson said, softly surprised, his own ball burning brightly in the air in front of him. ‘Don’t be afraid of it. Remember - you are in control.’
This time the puff turned into a small ball of flame, the size of a golf ball, and Thomas felt elation well inside of him as he watched it float above his hand.
‘Good.’ Orson said, still softly. ‘Now just get used to it at first.’ A minute later, ‘Try moving it now, with your eyes, your thoughts…’ An almost sing-song quality to his voice.
Thomas turned his head and the ball followed. He sliced his palm slowly from left to right and back, repeatedly, and the ball followed. He closed his eyes and the flame sputtered out, opened them and it was immediately there again. Bounced it, watched it jump up and down like a rubber ball instead of a ball of flame.
‘Very good.’ Orson’s voice in the dark sounded perturbed, and, unnoticed by Thomas, slightly awed. ‘Now clench your left hand around the crystal,’ he said.
Thomas closed his hand and squeezed. The ball flared and sputtered, and became white hot and grew to the size of a tennis ball. He felt sudden power surge through his veins and the muscles in his arm bunch; and when he glared first at the ball and then the darkened woods, it sped off towards them. It flew only ten metres or so, before sizzling out.
‘Thomas!’ The young Traveller woke as if from a trance and physically shook, shuddering. He turned big eyes to Orson.
‘You’ll set the woods on fire, Thomas.’ Orson’s tone was soothing, but this time he couldn’t hide its underlying awe. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘mastering a crystal and using its power is no great feat, Thomas. Being able to harness that power: to control and direct it… That’s an accomplishment.’
Thomas nodded: stunned speechless and wide-eyed at what he had just witnessed himself do.
Orson gave him some time to regain his composure, before asking, ‘Now do you understand what Joshi meant?’
Thomas nodded once more. Numb, and still half in shock.
A nod from Orson, then. ‘Now let’s do it again,’ he said. ‘Relax…’
*
It was much later when Thomas went down the steps, wanting only to return to the cave and his bed. Needing time to think; and then to sleep.
‘Thomas?’ He turned back to Orson, who stood at the top of the steps.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Are you all right?’ The old man sounded worried.
Thomas nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just tired.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to sleep over?’ Orson asked and the boy shook his head.
‘No thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I need some time to think…’
Orson nodded in turn - understanding. ‘I think we’ll take the day off tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the sea.’
‘I would like that,’ said Thomas and Orson nodded again.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll go early. Put on a tracksuit, but bring along a bag with some shorts and a towel. And slip-slops.’
Tessie accompanied Thomas as far as the cave’s entrance, and then took a slow jog back to Orson’s, stopping often to water her favourite rose bushes.
23
Orson’s legs were short and thin and almost as white as the sand they walked on. The Mediterranean Sea was like a huge lake: very blue and its waves just a foot high. The water was warm, the air chilly with a slight breeze. A beautiful lavender and white yacht lay anchored a few hundred metres out, but there was no movement on its decks - its occupants probably still sleeping after a late night.
‘Majorca is the largest island in the Balearic Island group,’ said Orson. ‘The islands are an autonomous community, but belong to Spain… What that means, I don’t know,’ he muttered. The city of Palma, its capital, lay a few kilometres to the west, and Orson waved in its direction. ‘Your mother stays in there somewhere,’ he said. ‘It will be easy to find her if you want to see her.’
Thomas didn’t need to think about it. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m really not interested,’ he said. ‘But thank you anyway, Orson.’ The Traveller peered at the boy for a few seconds, then nodded - sagely.
A big man, swarthy with thick silver hair and a big moustache, and unshaved stubble on his face, strolled past them. His jeans were rolled to just below his knees and a pair of rubber slops dangled from his fingers. His shirt was unbuttoned as far as his navel, and more silver hair curled mat-like on his huge chest and stomach. He greeted them with a friendly smile, which froze in place, and Thomas saw his eyes change as they passed.
He looked back after a few more paces; the man had stopped and turned around and was staring after them, his mouth open. He halted Orson with a hand on his arm and the old Traveller followed the boy’s gaze, his eyebrows knit together in puzzlement.
The other man - he looked only a few years younger than Orson - slowly came walking back and stopped before them; leant forward and squinted at the older Traveller’s face, reading it like a map: the fleshy nose, the wart, the eyelid… A delighted grin split his features, his teeth were large and very white.
‘It is you!’ he shouted joyfully and grabbed Orson’s shoulders; almost lifted him off his feet and kissed him resoundingly on both cheeks. A thoroughly confused and caught-completely-off-guard Orson reared back, staring at the man as if he was mad.
‘You don’t remember?’ The man took a step back and looked stricken.
Orson shook his head - flummoxed and very wary of this oversized person; who took another step backwards, and beat his barrel chest hard with one hairy fist.
‘It is me, mon ami,’ he cried beseechingly, ‘Emille!’
Recognition slowly replaced the wariness in Orson’s grey eyes, and then, with a delighted shout of his own, he hopped forward and grabbed the other man’s shoulders, pulled until he was bent almost double; until their faces were on the same level, and then kissing his bristly cheeks in turn, more resoundingly if at all possible.
A lot more backslapping, and to and fro shouting, and cackling and booming laughter followed, and when eventually the two calmed down enough to act normally again, Orson proudly introduced a baffled Thomas as “my grandson”. The big man stared at the boy, then looked at Orson hopefully.
‘You and the lovely Rose?’ he asked, and Orson smiled, nodded. The silver-haired mini giant grabbed Thomas’ shoulders, and squinted long and hard at his face, then lifted him bodily off the ground and kissed his forehead loudly. He seemed to like kissing, this Emille, Thomas thought bemusedly, as the man put him down.
And then Orson stumbled several short steps forward as he was almost brought to his knees by a terrific slap between the shoulder blades; he grinned and Thomas blanched, when Emille declared in a booming voice, ‘He is going to be the spitting image of you, mon ami!’
The big man shoved his slops, one each into the back pockets of his jeans, and then insinuated himself between the two Travellers. They began walking again, Thomas and Orson each with a thick, hairy arm draped around their shoulders. They looked a very strange trio, and turned a lot of heads: amused looks that followed their erratic, out of step passage.
‘Your grandfather dances the best Tango I have ever had the pleasure - and the honour of witnessing mon petit,’ Emille said. ‘The two of them together: Rose and Orson…’ his tone became entranced and for a second he removed his arm from Thomas’ shoulders, kissing his fingertips with smacking lips. ‘A symphony!’ he shouted. ‘Magic! Forty years ago…’ His loud voice tailed off and he stopped - they with him. He turned to Orson, and with his face almost touching the older Traveller’s, squinted at him again. Frowned.
‘Orson,’ he accused some seconds later. ‘You have hardly aged! I was a young man then - barely into my twenties - and you already over forty.’ He shook his grizzled head - perplexed, then grabbed the Traveller’s shoulders again and softly shook him.
‘The beautiful Rose?’ he asked, and when the smaller man shook his head, sadly, Emille’s face sagged and he said softly, ‘Ach no, Orson. I am so sorry.’ His eyes were suddenly filled with tears and Emille shamelessly wiped them away with the back of one hand, then took a large red handkerchief from one pocket and loudly blew his nose.
They walked again, and Emille told a wide-eyed Thomas about beginnings: about coming from France at the age of twenty-two and starting his own restaurant in the harbour of Palma; about the many people (patrons since), who had come to eat his seafood, but really to see the extraordinary short and ugly man, and his tall and exceptionally beautiful woman, dance. Dance as only two people really in love can.
He left them where he left his car - at the outskirts of the city. It was time to open his restaurant for the cleaners, he said, but before Emille bid them farewell, he extracted a solemn promise from Orson and Thomas; to visit his establishment and to eat and drink as much as they wanted… and maybe his old friend Orson would be as kind as to give Emille’s granddaughter a few lessons in the Tango?
They left Majorca in the early afternoon and landed in Grenada an hour or so after businesses opened, in time to have a huge breakfast, or brunch in their case. The air here was already sultry-hot, the Caribbean waters refreshing. But still, no waves...
*****
The black refuse bags were bulky and heavy, and Bryan Stone and three more boys (who had just returned from a shopping trip on the Earth), carried and dragged them to the centre of the large chamber, before tearing them open. Clothing - still in their plastic wrappings, spilled out and lay in a heap, some slid two or three feet across the icy floor.
Thermal underwear, T-shirts, woollen shirts, jerseys, jackets, scarves and caps; corduroy and denim pants, thick woollen socks and boots. In various sizes, but all black.
Bryan Stone stood back and looked at the group of gaping boys in their rags, huddled together for some extra warmth. He smiled and almost regally waved at the bountiful heap. ‘Help yourselves,’ he said.
*
‘From now on,’ Bryan slapped his truncheon softly, rhythmically, into the open palm of his right hand and let his pale-blue gaze sweep the assembled boys, freshly dressed in their new clothes and warm for the first time in months, (or as close to being warm as one could be on Desolation), ‘you will shower every day. Starting today,’ he said. The glum looks on most of their faces were replaced by ones of anticipation when he added, ‘And don’t look so rebellious. There will be hot water - plenty of it.’
Rudi stood a little to one side, separated from the rest of the boys, a scowl on his face. ‘Is that all right with you, Rudi?’ Bryan asked, still slapping the leaded pipe into his palm, with an underlying tone of menace in his young-old voice. The other boy reluctantly nodded and dropped his eyes, and after a long, thoughtful look, Bryan did the same. He pointed at the remaining clothes on the floor. ‘Each of you,’ he said, ‘take a spare set of clothes, more if there’s left. You will wash them once a week - your underclothes every day. You will have to do it with your hands.’ He paused, waiting, but the boys remained silent. ‘I do not expect you to iron them, but your clothes, like your bodies, will be clean.
‘Left outside the castle’s entrance are new blankets. You are to share them equally. There are plenty, and we,’ he lifted his chin at his three helpers, ‘we will fetch more in a day or two.
‘After you’ve had your showers, take your old clothes and blankets outside. Throw them in a heap; we will burn them.’
Without another word, Bryan turned and walked off - to report to his master and to solicit some more favours from him.
*****
It was night time in Rainbow’s End and the two Travellers were again on the veranda of Orson’s cottage. A slight breeze wafted through, refreshing; a pair of crickets were competing with each other under the wooden deck, volume-wise. They had just finished supper - a box of fried chicken, chips and dessert: brought back from Grenada and reheated in Orson’s microwave.
Rainbow’s End’s magic was already turning Thomas’ painful sunburn into a healthy tan, and he was playing with fire again; juggling two balls of it and sometimes adding a third, which, whenever dropped, sputtered out before hitting the wooden floor. Orson sat watching, quietly amazed but showing polite boredom. Tessie was watching a rerun of yet another episode of Fawlty Towers with her new friend, Scooter.
‘Tell me about “The Push”, Orson.’ Thomas juggled the balls faster, making a fiery circle in the dark.
‘“The Push”?’ The old man’s eyes in the light of the fire were wide-eyed nonplussed.
‘“The Push”, yes,’ Thomas answered impa
tiently, ‘and don’t be so deliberately dense,’ he added, exasperatedly, without thinking. The balls abruptly fizzled out and he whispered a horrified “I’m sorry” at the expression on his grandfather’s face. ‘I didn’t think…’
Orson was gaping at him: speechless and eyes bulging. Then, shocked seconds later, he gave a loud guffaw, followed by a delighted cackle. ‘You’re just like her!’ he crowed. ‘Just like Rose!’
Thomas, who was still embarrassed, remained silent, and the cackling died down after a few seconds. The crickets were the only sound for a minute, and then another ball of flame appeared - this time it was Orson’s.
He said, ‘It’s not easy to explain, Thomas. Easier to do, really. And I can’t do it with you... Can’t push you, I mean. I tried when I fetched you from that cabin on Broken Hill; it wouldn’t work. I think it has to do with us both being Travellers: one cannot impose his will on another.’ He pursed his lips, pensive for a few seconds, and then continued.
‘Those in the know say that sixty percent of people use just five to ten percent of their brains, Thomas. Another ten percent use more, in varying degrees; and sadly, the remaining thirty percent, use less.
‘Just a third of our brains are accessible to us, and of this third, we use on average a third: hence the figure of ten percent - one third of one third. That is what separates us mortals from demi-gods and gods. Demi-gods have access to a further one third - which, incidentally, they use; and gods, the whole of theirs. That last third is what gives them the power to give life; and immortality.
‘Some mortals; very few, possess the ability to use some - and note that I use the word some - of the second third of their minds, but they have to be opened first… be made to see what it is possible for them to do, as you have. It allows them, again in varying degrees, the use of certain paranormal powers, or facilities… Call it what you will. Powers such as telepathy, telekinetics, mind-control, teleportation… These are the Travellers. You, me, Izzy… At your initiation, Izzy and I have passed on to you our knowledge, our memories. Ariana has opened you.’
Rainbow's End - Wizard Page 21
