Rainbow's End - Wizard

by Mitchell, Corrie

  Izzy fell back in his lounge chair, seeming to deflate, leaving a perplexed and thoroughly confused Thomas staring at him.

  ‘What would you have me do, Izzy,’ he asked after some seconds, and Izzy heard the wretchedness in his voice.

  ‘I don’t know and I won’t pretend to Thomas.’ Izzy sighed. ‘What I can tell you, you’ve already heard twice: from Ariana and Joshi. I can do no better. You have to follow your heart, and before you tell me that’s what you’ve done, let me add this: it is sometimes alright to change your mind.’ A wry smile. ‘Or, as some people would say - to have a change of heart.’

  He sat forward again. ‘Remember, Thomas,’ he said, ‘remember that I once - albeit for different reasons - had to make the same decision; the same choice, as you. My choice made me a very happy and contented man.’ A probing, very serious look, then, ‘Will yours do the same? Or will it make you bitter and unhappy; and old before your time?’

  Thomas sprang to his feet with an impatient sound. ‘I have to think, Izzy,’ he said. ‘I have to get out of here.’ He was pale and gave Izzy a twisted smile. ‘I do it best on my feet, Grammy used to say. Think, I mean. Is it all right for me to go downstairs?’

  Izzy looked surprised. ‘To the street?’ he asked, and Thomas nodded.

  ‘Alone?’ Another question and another nod.

  ‘I won’t go far,’ Thomas assured him. ‘Just a block or so. I’ll walk up and down… I need space, Izzy. I need to be by myself for a while…’

  Izzy’s look was doubtful. ‘I don’t think so Thomas,’ he said. ‘It’s not a good idea. Not alone - not a boy, eleven years old.’

  ‘Almost twelve.’ Thomas’ look was steady, and Izzy tried again, not at all sure of how to treat an eleven - almost twelve year old, in a situation like this. ‘Can’t I at least come with you then?’ he asked. ‘It’s very dark out, you know…’

  Thomas smiled at the last, lamely uttered statement; shook his head. ‘No, Izzy. I know it’s dark, but there’s plenty of light down on the street. It’s not much different than during the day.’ Adding, ‘I really do need to be alone. Besides,’ he fingered the crystal through his shirt’s fabric, ‘I have this to protect me, don’t I?’

  Izzy’s look was still troubled, but after another minute of being subjected to the boy’s green-eyed stare, relented. ‘Well, all right.’ He sighed - long-suffering. ‘But only in this block. You’ll stay between the two traffic lights?’ Thomas nodded.

  ‘You promise?’ Izzy asked.

  ‘I promise.’ Thomas smiled.

  ‘And not more than an hour?’

  ‘No more,’ Thomas assured the still not very happy old man.

  *

  The aging guard in the foyer was named Billy, and he was very surprised to see Thomas step out of the elevator by himself. ‘Evening, Mr. Thomas.’ He touched the peak of his cap. ‘Going for a walk, are we?’

  ‘Good evening, Billy,’ Thomas returned his greeting. ‘Just up and down the block, yes,’ he said. ‘I need to think.’

  The guard frowned. ‘Does Mr. Greenbaum know, then?’ he asked, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s after ten, already.’

  ‘Yes, he knows,’ Thomas said, ‘and he said it’s alright, as long as I don’t go further than this block.’

  Billy beetled his bushy eyebrows. He’d worked for Izzadore Greenbaum almost thirty years, and knew the man for what he was: good and kind, and certainly not irresponsible. It was not his place to question him. He buzzed open the door to the street.

  *

  The city block had only two buildings on the one side; the Rainbow Building and one other, with an alley just wide enough to drive a lorry into, separating them. Both of their ground floors - all of the block, was taken up by shops: hairdressers, clothing boutiques, a jewellery shop, electrical outlet and repairs, a Chinese takeaway; they all catered mostly to the daytime traffic, and had already closed.

  Thomas took no notice of any of them - he’d told Izzy that he needed to think, and that’s what he did. It was a nice night to be out; a slight wind had taken away most of the pollution and left the air smelling fresher than usual. Very few people were about; there was almost no nightlife in this, and the surrounding four or five city blocks, a few restaurants only, like Christina’s, which was situated three blocks to the east.

  And Thomas thought: He thought about what he and Izzy had talked about; about a possible life here, or going back to Rainbow’s End; about Orson and Ariana, and the children… His mind was one large jumbled puzzle, and he - no matter how hard he tried - couldn’t seem to get a single piece to fall into place.

  The second time he passed the alley, Thomas thought he heard something, and stopped for a few seconds, peering into the dark and calling a soft “hello”: received no reply, and walked on again, shaking his head. I’m hearing things now, he thought wryly. On the next pass, the sound stopped him again, and he stood listening. Someone was crying, but when he called out again, the sound abruptly stopped once more. Looking to his left and right, to make sure nobody else was around, and after taking a deep breath to steady his own nerves, Thomas stepped into the dark.

  The alley smelled of dirty drains and putrid vegetables, cloying and musty and dank, but it was warmer than the street. Street - and shop lights illuminated the first few metres, but deeper in, it was dark; the further, the darker. Thomas called out again, softly, but still received no reply; walked in a bit further and lit a fireball.

  There were two doors, four or five metres on: one on the left and one on the right - presumably leading into the back of the electrical shop on the Rainbow Building side; and the takeaway on the corner of the other. The takeaway’s door was partly obscured by a pile of black plastic refuse bags, some of which had been ripped open by cats or rats, spilling out rotten vegetables and other unidentifiable bits and pieces of what Thomas presumed was also food of some sort. He walked slowly further and the fireball accompanied him; and then he could see behind the bags and he stopped. A boy sat on the doorstep, hugging his knees. He was no more than six years old, with dark hair and big eyes, staring open-mouthed at the crackling, floating ball of fire.

  *

  His name was Eamon, and his grey eyes reminded Thomas of Orson’s. His clothing threadbare: stringy denim pants and a baggy yellow jersey; one running shoe gaped at the side, and his small belongings in a white plastic bag at his feet.

  He wouldn’t talk at first, but after a slight “Push” couldn’t seem to stop, and Thomas let the fireball fizzle out, careful not to attract unwanted attention. It seemed suddenly very dark without its comforting presence.

  He had run away from the man who had fetched him and his baby sister from their flat that afternoon, Eamon said. His Da had died in a car accident a few months ago, and his mother hadn’t come home from her job as a waitress since two nights back. The baby cried all the time after she’d finished the bottles left by their mother, and the neighbours - fed-up - had eventually phoned the police. They - after being let in by the small boy, and looking in drawers and boxes for a while, spoke in adult whispers of the suicide they had a couple of nights ago - “jumped off a building’s roof, she did, poor woman”, and “look at this” - waving at the small flat; untidy and smelling of used nappies. “Must have been at her wit’s end.”

  He’d seen a film of a boy his own age, named Oliver Twist, Eamon said, and he wasn’t going to no orphanage, resolution - and fear - in his voice.

  ‘When did you last eat, Eamon?’ Thomas asked. ‘Are you hungry?’ He could see the boy’s nod in the dark, now that his eyes had adjusted to it, and Thomas made two decisions. One - he would take Eamon back to the penthouse with him, and two - they would both Travel to Rainbow’s End the next day.

  ‘Come,’ he said to Eamon, and they both got up from the doorstep. He took the smaller boy’s hand in his own, and Thomas felt suddenly light as air, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  *

  And then they were blind
ed and surprised by the beam from a torch and a taunting young voice. ‘Well, well,’ it said, ‘and what have we here?’

  Black silhouettes filled the entrance to the alley, bunched together, but enough to block all routes of escape. He couldn’t see any of their faces, but judging from their sizes, they were all children, Thomas thought. Some as tall as he, some a bit more, one or two the same size, or just slightly bigger than Eamon. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing to do with you, rich boy.’ The reply was snide, and accompanied by the torch’s light, moving slowly up and down Thomas’ body - taking in the elegant navy jacket, the snow-white shirt, the sharply creased off-white trousers. ‘Run along to Mamma, then,’ it said, mockingly. ‘Our business is with him.’ The flashlight’s beam jumped to Eamon, and Thomas felt his small hand grip tighter, saw the fear in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Thomas said. He felt himself getting angry; the crystal was suddenly hot against his chest and his heart beat very fast. Three or four of the dark silhouettes came slowly closer, and Thomas started a fireball: a large one. They were all just children; boys, he saw. All dressed in black. Their leader, presumably - he carried the flashlight and did the talking - had red hair and strange blue eyes. Surprise in them, but no fear.

  And then the cosh hit the side of his head, and Thomas, abruptly boneless, dropped to his hands and knees. The Night Walkers, like a pack of wild dogs smelling blood, all rushed in and began kicking him.

  *

  Izzy picked up the intercom handset next to the lift’s door. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  It was Billy from the foyer. ‘Mr. Greenbaum?’

  ‘Yes. Good evening, Billy.’

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ Billy sounded flustered and out of breath. ‘Mr. Greenbaum, I think that you should maybe come down here, sir. There are police vehicles and an ambulance on the street. They say a boy has been badly hurt, sir. I think it might be young Mr. Thomas…’

  *****

  Tessie was on her rug, head resting on her paws, and for once not looking at the television set - which was switched off in anyway - but at her friend. Her sad eyes reflected the hurt in his own. Neither of them had eaten in days, and no cork had left its bottle, but who cared?

  The knock on the door was soft, and Orson, without being conscious of it, thought it open. John came around each day, bringing food that stood untouched - an ever-longer row on the counter every day. It didn’t go off; it was too cold for that.

  Tessie scrambled to her feet and Orson turned his head towards the door, then stared and gaped; and in a whisper asked, ‘Ariana?’ It was the first time ever that she had come to his house; come to think of it - it was the first time ever he had seen her away from her pool. A terrible sense of foreboding started squeezing his chest; he got up off the couch, and asked, ‘What are you doing here? What’s wrong?’ He saw the shadows in her eyes, and knew then.

  ‘It’s Thomas, innit?’ he asked, and when Ariana nodded, ‘Has he been hurt?’ Anxious. He took a step closer and stared into her face, his eyelid fluttering nervously. ‘Well, tell me,’ he demanded; and then staggered back with a strangled “no!”; desperate denial at the young goddess, ‘Thomas is dying, Orson.’

  *

  ‘How?’ Orson asked. Ariana’s face was very pale, her eyes huge dark pools of blue.

  ‘He was assaulted,’ she said. ‘Beaten up. In an alley next to the Rainbow Building in London. Izzy said a policeman happened by before they were through with him, and his attackers ran away. Thomas would have been dead already, if he hadn’t…’

  Something in her voice made Orson lift his face out of his cupped hands - it had aged twenty years in the last few minutes; his eyes were haunted, his voice haggard. ‘Who’s “they”,’ he asked. ‘Did the policeman see them?’

  Ariana nodded. ‘The man’s a police inspector and had just come off duty; he was on his way home when he interrupted them, so I think we can trust in his powers of observation…’ Orson nodded impatiently, and she carried on, ‘He says there were between eight and a dozen young boys; all dressed in black - just black.’

  And then she had to shout his name and “Push”: Very hard, so that Orson fell limply back on the couch. For he had sprung to his feet - face suddenly puce, and screaming in a terrible rage: ‘I will kill them! I will kill every last one of them - every one of the bastards!’

  *

  Later… Orson looked at Ariana with tragic eyes and asked, despondently, ‘What about time-curves? Can I not get there before it happens?’

  She shook her head, forlornly. ‘There are none suitable until five days from now,’ she said, ‘and by then it will be too late. The doctor in charge told Izzy that Thomas is fading fast, that it’s a question of mere hours… He has massive internal injuries and intracranial bleeding. They cannot operate - his injuries are too severe… His body is too weak to survive the additional shock. He will die on the operating table…’

  Orson put his face in his hands again, and huge hurting sobs shook his shoulders. The goddess shared his pain, and took his hand, holding it for a long time in consoling silence. And then made a decision.

  ‘Orson…’ She squeezed his hand - hard. ‘Orson, stop it! Listen.’ He looked at her with washed grey eyes, in mute despair, and Ariana took a deep breath.

  ‘There is only one way to do this,’ she said. ‘Given time, you could do it by yourself, but we don’t have time. Every single second counts, and exceptional circumstances sometimes justify exceptional means.’ Another deep breath. ‘Now listen very carefully. The sun rises in just over an hour, and not a minute can be lost…’

  30

  ‘What?’ asked Kraylle from Bryan Stone just as the boy was about to leave, having stood watching the slumbering giant for several minutes. He sat on his icy throne, chin supported on one huge fist and not deigning to open his eyes: infinitely bored by his surrounds and what happened in them.

  ‘I, uh… I came to tell you that we’re back,’ said Bryan, shuffling his feet self-consciously. He was - against his normally proud self-nature - seeking the acknowledgement of his god.

  The demi-god opened his eyes then, and lifted his eyebrows; sat watching the uncomfortable Bryan for a few long seconds, as one would a roach.

  Leaned forward then, and asked, ‘Are you dense, Bryan? Are you a half-wit?’

  Said: ‘I bring you back...’ then sat back and shrugged, and held out his hands in supplication, finished, ‘How could I not know you are back, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ This from a properly castigated Bryan; but not grovelling, Kraylle noted, secretly pleased - not like Rudi.

  He relented a bit then, and sat up straighter, rearranged his bulky fur coat around him. ‘Did you have any problems?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing really,’ from a relieved Bryan. ‘We’ve picked up one more soldier…’

  Kraylle grimaced at the word “soldier”, and asked - ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Six - he’s six,’ said Bryan.

  Kraylle blew a belittling “Gmmphf”, through his hawkish nose. ‘A baby,’ he said. ‘Are you recruiting babies now Bryan?’ Mocking.

  ‘He’s better than nothing,’ retorted his little general, in a tone that caused the demi-god’s eyebrows to curve in amused little bows. ‘In anyway,’ Bryan added, ‘we didn’t go looking for him. We found them in an alley; we heard them talk.’

  Another lift of Kraylle’s eyebrows. ‘Them?’ he asked, languidly.

  ‘Yes,’ Bryan nodded, ‘them. There were two of them. The other was some rich boy. We couldn’t take him; he’d be missed for sure.’ He smiled a self-satisfied smile, adding, ‘He’s probably dead by now in anyway. We gave him a good kicking - one nobody can survive.’ His smile became a twisted grin. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘from experience.’

  Kraylle straightened up a bit more: his morbid curiosity - if not exactly set alight, at least sparked.

  Bryan saw this, and encouraged, continued, ‘He was holding Eamon’s hand - that�
��s our new boy’s name, Eamon - and was probably taking him home. He’s still very scared, but Eamon said the other boy - he called him Thomas - had asked him if he was hungry.’

  ‘Why didn’t you simply take the small one?’ queried Kraylle. ‘Why hurt - or kill this other boy? Why advertise yourselves? Your existence?’

  ‘He wouldn’t let us have the small one,’ answered Bryan, and then related what happened.

  ‘I told him to run along: that we were only interested in the little one, but no, he wanted to be the hero, didn’t he? Said: “I don’t think so” - all snotty-like.’ Bryan mimed a shrill voice. ‘And then he snapped his fingers, and there was this bright ball of fire. All crackling-like…’

  He saw Kraylle’s eyebrows knit together, and he leaned forward in his throne, paying more attention suddenly, and Bryan, with some small satisfaction, continued, ‘About the size of a football, it was. Fancied himself some kind of magician, I suppose…’ He smiled, remembering, ‘And then I hit him… and we gave him a kicking.’ A small shrug and his smile was smug. ‘He’s dead by now,’ Bryan reiterated, ‘I’ll wager on that.’

  ‘A Traveller.’ Kraylle had moved to the edge of his chair and was gripping its armrests, all boredom having fled his obsidian eyes. ‘Ariana’s new Traveller,’ he hissed, recalling the white pillar of light a month or more ago, and the images it held. ‘His eyes?’ he asked, and his voice had turned harsh, ‘Were they green?’