‘Frieda?’ The younger woman turned her head, and watched Edith in silence, waiting.
‘Is it all right if I call you Frieda?’ Edith asked and Frieda nodded. It was too dark to be sure, but Edith thought she had been crying. ‘I am Edith Carter,’ she said softly. ‘Maggie’s grandmother.’
‘I know.’ Very soft; sad.
‘May I sit?’
A nod, and Frieda said, ‘Of course you can,’ then, ‘I’m sorry. I forget my manners sometimes.’ A wan smile. ‘It happens when you’re with children all the time.’
Edith sat down a couple of metres away; the bare rock under her was not nearly as hard as she had anticipated: almost yielding, or was it her imagination? They sat in silence then, and Edith took the time to look.
The rainbow had gone of course; the huge white moon drifting in its place was the mirror image of its twin in the heavens above. There were many more stars than she had ever seen at one time, some of which she thought she recognised: the Southern Cross which she had seen while in Australia on holiday once; Orion’s Belt was upside down, and so were the scales in the constellation of Libra; the Milky Way lived up to its name - from here a long wide, white belt of billions upon billions of stars; dozens of meteorites traced long chalky lines across the indigo sky…
The soft breeze teased the tips of her short hair and an owl called from somewhere; a nightingale answered.
‘It is wonderful, this place,’ Edith breathed. ‘Really wonderful. Beautiful.’
Frieda smiled at her for a second, then returned to staring at the living skies. The two of them sat in silence for a few magical minutes, and then Edith asked softly: ‘Do you love her very much, Frieda?’
She received another wan look, and then, in an almost whisper, hopelessly, ‘As if she were my own.’ Impulsively then and without thinking - ‘much more than her own mother did!’ Frieda bit her bottom lip and looked away, embarrassed, remembering that she was referring to Edith’s own dead daughter. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
Edith reached over and squeezed the younger woman’s hand. ‘You needn’t be, and it’s all right, Frieda,’ she said. ‘Because it’s true.’ She sat in silence for a while, and when she spoke again, her voice had also turned soft - reminiscing. ‘But it was not always like that…’
And she told Frieda about her beautiful little daughter, so much like Maggie when she was small; and about her growing up and her father dying; and Edith just starting her first business and not giving enough love, enough attention… And then, first the wrong friends and later the wrong boyfriends; and the drinking and the smoking, and then the drugs… And getting pregnant and having Maggie, and then the rehab centres - four of them in three years… And Edith practically raising Maggie; and Amanda coming home the last time: so alive, so full of verve, so… changed. And the three of them so happy…
And then, another boyfriend, and Amanda leaving with him, high on whatever it was he supplied her with; and in spite of a begging and crying Edith’s supplications, taking a silently sobbing Maggie with her…
And after almost six months of nothing, the police, and having to identify her daughter’s dead body… And now this…
This time it was her hand being squeezed and Edith looked gratefully into Frieda’s eyes, which, in the dark, shone as wetly as her own. The younger woman suddenly stood and pulled Edith upright. ‘Let’s go see if Arnold is still in his kitchen,’ she said, and I’ll treat you to a strong cup of coffee.
*****
‘What in the name of the gods am I going to tell Ariana?’ Orson rubbed his hands over his bristly cheeks again and sat staring at Thomas with grim eyes.
Thomas said quietly: ‘She would already know, wouldn’t she?’
Orson groaned. ‘What in the hells am I thinking about. Of course she knows.’ He glared at the boy standing in front of him. ‘What were you thinking?’ he asked then, bitingly. ‘That you were Robin Hood? Coming to the rescue? Of what? An old woman? A little girl?’ His tone turned sarcastic. ‘Maybe I should just have you explain to Ariana. You seem to be, after all, the clever one…’
Thomas felt his face flush, and he tried defending himself. ‘Ariana said to follow my heart,’ he said, and then added lamely, ‘and she’s not that old, Maggie’s gran. She’s a lot younger than you.’
It was too much for a half-drunk, incensed Orson. He jumped to his feet. ‘Follow your heart?!’ he shouted. ‘Follow your heart?!’ He sprayed spittle. Then, took a gulping breath before continuing - still shouting accusingly. ‘And that’s exactly what you did, innit?! That’s exactly the problem! You followed your heart - to the extent that you forgot to use your brain!’ He tapped the side of his head with a blunt forefinger.
Thomas’ blush remained and he lowered his eyes to the floor at his feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
‘Excuse me?’ Orson cocked his head forward and gave the boy a big-eyed stare. ‘Did you say - “I’m sorry”?’ He was sarcastic again. ‘Is that what you said?’
Thomas bit his bottom lip and gave a small, silent nod.
‘And that’s supposed to make it all right?’ It was said mockingly. ‘The first time you are allowed - trusted to Travel alone,’ Orson spat (the wine was speaking now), ‘you do this. You bring back an old woman. You break the trust given you!’ He sat back down, threw his arms wide and made the big eyes again. ‘And then you say - I’m sorry.’ Mockingly.
Thomas lifted his eyes; clear green clashed with bloodshot grey. ‘I think I will leave now,’ he said; turning away blindly and fighting back his tears, stumbled out of the door and down the steps of Orson’s cottage, already half-running. He was crossing the bridge when Orson - holding on to the veranda’s railing, shouted behind him - ‘Thomas, come back here! Do you hear me, Thomas? Come back here!’ And then he was amongst the trees and Orson’s voice faded away behind him.
*****
They talked for a long time while the fawning Arnold treated them like royalty: feeding them some magical desserts; exotic coffees and hot chocolate… They talked about Maggie and themselves; about Frieda’s twenty years at Rainbow’s End and Edith’s fifty on the Earth. And were astounded to find out they were the same age; Frieda actually two months older (she had come to Rainbow’s End when she was ten).
They talked of life and love, and of living and loving: whispering. Frieda blushed whenever Arnold was around, and Edith - to the self-styled chef’s unending delight - called him Monsieur Arnold and asked him in which of the great hotels he had received his training. They talked of longing and missing, and of being happy and being sad.
Of Rainbow’s End and magic; and fairies and children, and Big John and Annie and Arnold. And still more of Maggie...
*
The roof had closed for the night when Frieda and Edith returned to the former’s bedroom. The children were all sleeping and the cave was quiet. It was lit by a few high-up fluorescent tubes, the weak artificial light somehow adding to the huge round space’s enchanted feel; the crusted ropes of gems, glowing deeper, darker, more mysterious.
Edith smiled at the large purple lettering on Frieda’s door, and at the loopy golden script on Annie’s just a couple of metres away. ‘The children?’ she asked in an amused tone.
Frieda followed her eyes and said, ‘Oh no, that’s not the children. That’s the Little People. They love writing on things…’
They went inside and Edith stopped. ‘But how is it possible?’ she asked. ‘The doors outside are so close together, yet…your rooms are so large.’
Frieda shrugged. ‘I’m so used to it, I don’t even notice it anymore,’ she said. ‘It has to do with space within space; and more space within that space, ad infinitum… Big John explains it a lot better - he was a Physics professor back on the Earth.’ Frieda’s smile became filled with mischief. ‘But I understand the two of you are not speaking right now,’ she said.
Frieda’s room was very large. She’d always loved space. The size of a double-volume sitting
room: it had soft pastel walls and a high ceiling; the floor was white marble tiles, pink and purple veined; a few hand knotted Angora wool carpets lay around.
There were two beds: a huge king-sized one and a single; between them a carpet and a closed door that presumably led into the bathroom. Off to the side, on a larger carpet, stood a sofa and two easy chairs, blonde oak in a modern, low design, with light tan leather cushions. There were four occasional tables - of the same wood, with glass tops: one larger and piled high with magazines and children’s books; the other three smaller, each with a Tiffany lamp on it and under a beautiful painting. Spotlighting them. They were set in plain wooden frames, so as not to detract from the art itself; two of which, to Edith - although she knew it was impossible - looked like Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” and “Sunflowers”.
She gave Frieda a questioning look and received an affirmative nod. ‘They’re real,’ she said. ‘Original.’
‘But how can that be possible?’ Edith was bewildered.
‘Because I want them to be,’ was the answer. ‘It’s what Rainbow’s End is all about, don’t you see, Edith? What we’ve been talking about all night: about making dreams come true? Especially for the children. Here - on Rainbow’s End -’ Frieda waved an encompassing hand, ‘they not only get to live their dreams, they also see them come true. Become real.
‘And when they’ve left, and remember nothing of what had happened in the past months, a little seed remains in their subconscious. A little seed, that years into the future, might germinate and tell them, show them, that the impossible may be possible after all…’ Frieda’s tone had become animated, almost excited. ‘That you can make your dreams come true if you really, really want to; and work hard enough at them.’
Frieda smiled proudly. ‘Many of our children have done just that,’ she said. ‘Made their dreams come true, I mean.’
*
And then it started raining.
‘It’s three o’clock already,’ said Frieda with surprise, and Edith gave her another puzzled look. There were no watches or clocks visible inside the room. Frieda explained, ‘It rains every morning between three and four. It is the most convenient time for it.’ Shrugging, and unconsciously adding to her guest’s confused state of mind by moving a wall further back; making the room larger still, and changing the single bed into a double. The sheets, pillows and downy-soft duvet stretched to fit. ‘Would you like a wall in the middle?’ asked Frieda, and Edith mutely shook her head, too stunned to answer.
They had earlier decided to leave Maggie with Annie for the night, and after Edith had a long soaking bath; her befuddled mind too many times stunned to function normally anymore, she found Frieda already asleep and new pyjamas and underclothes on her pillow. It was still raining when she fell asleep.
*****
Thomas did not go back to the cave. Instead, after crossing the bridge and entering the thicker forest again, he angled right and then slowly back towards the narrow stream, following it deeper, and into the Magic Forest. After a while, when the high overhead branches with their broad leaves and the massed climbers became too dense for the heavens to provide ample light, and when he was sure that he was too far away from Orson’s cottage for it to be seen, he used a fireball to light his way.
The living canopy high up had a ghostly-white glow, at times - when seen through hanging curtains and ropes of silky gossamer moss, a faintly fluorescent, ethereal green. The tree trunks were old and massively thick, even more so the further he went; some bent and gnarled, and in the flickering light of the floating ball of flame, grotesquely misshapen, their immense roots partly exposed, like thick dark snakes on the ground. The soil underfoot was softly yielding, and smelled rich and loamy; the stream, some metres off to his right, burbled and splashed whisper-soft over rocks that glistened wet in the occasional moonlit patch.
How long he walked for, Thomas had no idea of. His mind seemed numb. But then he found himself suddenly in an almost cul-de-sac: Huge roots bulged from the earth, and the spaces between the tree trunks were overgrown and filled with seemingly impenetrable undergrowth and saplings. A natural passageway led to the right and he took it. It widened steadily, funnel-like, and ended in a small glade facing the stream. It was only a few metres across and lit by the moon and the fireball, with short grass, and at its centre, incongruously - as if wished there, a wooden bench.
Thomas sat, gratefully and weary, but at last able to think.
*
He would have to leave. He could not stay. Not after tonight. Not after the scathingly sarcastic humiliation he had been subjected to by Orson. A soft flutter of wings beat against his eardrum and when he turned his head, George was lighting on his shoulder. He gave Thomas a “so who’s going to stop me” look and sat down, arranged his wings behind him with minute hands and wriggled his little backside - making himself comfortable.
Neither of them spoke for some time: just sat and listened to the water tumbling over the rocks, the occasional rustling between the tree roots or high up in their branches, the mournful call of an owl. An occasional pinpoint of light flickered between the trees, but sometimes remained in one spot longer. Like fireflies, or little lanterns, Thomas thought.
‘They are fairy-lights,’ said George, speaking for the first time. ‘Small torches we fairies use when we visit one another or look for fruit.’ Thomas remained silent, merely nodded, and George asked, ‘Are you sad, Thomas?’
The boy nodded and looked at the little man on his shoulder. ‘Yes, George,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, I am.’
The fairies small “mmmh” was followed by - ‘Are you going to leave us then?’ It was asked quietly, sadly: the answer already known.
‘Yes. I have to.’ Thomas said. He’d let the fireball go out long ago, but the fairy’s small frown was still visible in the moonlight.
‘Pride is a terrible thing sometimes, Thomas,’ he said, and the boy looked at him in surprise.
‘You know?’ he asked. ‘You know about…?’
‘Everybody knows, Thomas,’ and seeing the young Traveller’s baffled look, George gave details, ‘It’s the owls you see.’ His tone was accusing. One of the birds of the night gave an obliging “who-woo”, and the sprite peered into the branches high above. ‘The owls told us,’ he said, adding, to Thomas’ still uncomprehending look, ‘The owls nesting in Orson’s chimney.’
‘They can talk?’ Thomas stared at George.
‘Course they can talk,’ said the fairy, as if to a halfwit. ‘You just have to understand them.’
‘Ohh…’ Thomas’ response was a baffled exhalation. A seconds quiet, and then, ‘Right now, pride is the only thing I have, George.’
They looked and listened to the silvery-splashing water again, and sometime later, Thomas thought he heard singing. It somehow harmonised with the splashing water and the rest of the night sounds, soothing and slowly getting stronger, just a little louder.
And Joshi came into view, walking in the stream. He was holding up the hem of his white robe, and the rocks moved about and rose up to provide him with stepping stones. Where there were none, the water reached to his knees. When he stepped onto dry ground, he said-sang softly, ‘Good evening, Thomas.’
‘Good evening...’
‘Joshi,’ said the tall dwarf. ‘Just Joshi.’
Thomas nodded and Joshi looked to the fairy on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Good evening, fairy-George,’ he greeted the sprite, then said - ‘Could I ask…? Would you leave us for a while?’
‘Why?’ The little figure’s tone was cocky.
‘Because we - Thomas and I, need to talk,’ the Magari said, simply.
‘Private-like?’ asked the tiny man, and Joshi nodded.
‘Private-like,’ he confirmed, sagely.
George - miffed, gave a small sniff and got to his feet; tottered around on the high heels of his little purple boots for a second, and then, in an act of defiance to Joshi, and before Thomas could pull away, pressed a small kiss on th
e boy’s cheek and flew away.
*
He sat next to Thomas and said: ‘Tell me Thomas. Tell me what happened.’ And Joshi listened; and when Thomas had finished, he said softly, ‘I am so sorry, Thomas. So very sorry.’ He stared at the moving water for a long time, then asked, ‘Can you forgive him?’ Joshi looked at Thomas, who, in the moonlight, saw the wisdom in his ancient eyes.
‘I already have, Joshi,’ he said.
The Magari heard reservation in the young voice, and felt despair clutch and squeeze at his heart. ‘But…?’ he asked softly.
Thomas gave him a sad smile. ‘My grandmother…’
‘Rose,’ Joshi said and Thomas nodded.
‘Grammy Rose, yes: she used to say it was easy to forgive, and we should; but it was not possible to forget, and we shouldn’t - lest it happens again.’
Joshi slowly shook his head from side to side, and his white hair shone in the light of the moon. ‘She never much was one for grey, was Rose,’ he said. Just black and white - wrong or right… Nothing in between.’ Quiet again, and then - ‘And now, Thomas? What will happen now?’ he asked.
Thomas took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘I don’t know yet, Joshi,’ he said, ‘but I have to leave here.’ A catch in his throat, and his voice a whisper. ‘I have to leave Rainbow’s End,’ he said.
‘No, Thomas.’ The ancient dwarf laid a soft hand on Thomas’ arm and his eyes were dark shadows in his bewhiskered face. ‘It is not necessary,’ he said.
Thomas’ eyes, when he looked at Joshi, were swimming with tears, and he impatiently wiped them away with the back of one hand. ‘It is Joshi. You know it is.’ They sat quietly for a while, and then Thomas said, ‘I will leave the crystal with Izzy.’
Joshi shook his head. ‘You will not be able to,’ he said, and Thomas gave him a puzzled look.
Rainbow's End - Wizard Page 26
