Rainbow's End - Wizard

by Mitchell, Corrie

  36

  ‘No hang-over, Izzy?’

  He shook his head, half shamefacedly, and muttered something about “one of Orson’s “phases”, and pregnant dogs”.

  Ariana laughed. ‘So he knows,’ she said, and after a small pause, gleefully: ‘ye gods, I would have loved to see his face when he found out.’ She giggled, and Izzy, imagining the same picture, smiled wryly.

  ‘I’m going back tomorrow morning,’ he said then. ‘There are some things I have to follow up on - things I must have investigated. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, and if these…“things” pan out as I think they will, I have a proposition for you. A very interesting proposition.’

  ‘It doesn’t by any chance involve Maggie’s grandmother?’ Ariana asked, and Izzy was reminded - for the thousandth time - that almost nothing on Rainbow’s End was hidden from the young goddess.

  ‘Yes, Ariana,’ he sighed, and stood. ‘It involves Mrs. Carter, or Edith, as she prefers to be called.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Thomas?’ she asked as Izzy was leaving, and when he raised one eyebrow, ‘I don’t monitor him, remember?’

  Izzy nodded. ‘Thomas and Orson will be coming to England in a few days-time.’

  *****

  Thomas gave a long-suffering sigh and looked around the room. Heaps and stacks of atlases and other map-and information books covered the floor and overflowed the shelves of the room; in one corner, racks and racks of huge, hanging maps; on the large desk - a couple of feet in front of him - the huge globe of the earth. Not as much as even a small window to look out of.

  Keeping a secret eye on Orson, who was engrossed in an ancient copy of Mad Magazine, Thomas used one finger to turn the plastic globe, which squealed loudly on its dry axis. He waited a few seconds, but there was no discernable response, and spun it again - harder. This time its screech was akin to a long fingernail being slowly drawn across the length of a blackboard… and once again.

  Orson frowned from behind his magazine, and Thomas sent him a withering look as the spinning orb went abruptly quiet, and yellow oil covered his fingers as he was about to give it another spin. The old Traveller went back to his reading, and a minute later - for the umpteenth time - gave a strangled cackle.

  Thomas glared. The frequent cackles, often preceded by an explosive guffaw, and ending with a snort and a giggle, were distracting in the extreme, to say the least.

  ‘Orson?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Are we wizards, you and I?’

  The magazine lowered a couple of inches, revealing another frown. ‘Why do you ask me that?’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘Joshi says we are.’

  The magazine went down another few inches. ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘Last night,’ Thomas said. ‘I see him almost every night - since I woke up, that is.’

  ‘Why?’ Orson queried, folding the magazine. ‘And what do you do? Play snakes and ladders?’ Gave a snort and cackled at his own wit, but it tailed off under his grandson’s level stare.

  ‘He tells me things I ought to know,’ the boy said. ‘Things about Rainbow’s End.’

  ‘Such as?’ Orson’s lazy eyebrow lifted.

  ‘Such as we’re wizards, you and I,’ was the reply.

  Orson grunted and the magazine began lifting again.

  Thomas stopped him with an exasperated - ‘Well, are we or are we not?’

  ‘Course we are,’ Orson said, and then, ‘What else could we be?’

  Thomas shrugged, ‘I don’t know… Sorcerers, maybe? Aren’t they the same thing?’

  The magazine flopped into Orson’s lap. ‘Never!’ he gasped, aghast. ‘Sorcerers brew and boil unspeakables into smelly potions; they mutter and mumble gibberish which they call “spells”, and practice deceit and hypnotism. People fear them because they claim - most of them rightly - links with the “Dark Side”… what most’d call “Black Magic”. He stuck out his jaw and his nose in the air. ‘We don’t bother with that sort of nonsense,’ he sniffed. ‘It’s below us.’

  ‘So they can do magic?’

  Orson grimaced. ‘A little, yes.’ It was said reluctantly. ‘But not like wizards,’ he hastened to add - ‘not like us.’ He pushed out his chest a little. ‘Anybody can train to be a sorcerer, Thomas, but wizards are born that way. It is a gift. A very rare, and very special gift.’ He gave another haughty sniff, and changed the subject.

  ‘Know that, do you?’ He waved at the open atlas on the desk.

  Thomas nodded. ‘For ages,’ he said, ‘judging by what you and Izzy claim. You did give me your memories, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ the look in Orson’s eyes were sly, ‘but we might have missed something.’

  Thomas snorted derisively, and Orson stood.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ he said, ‘I’m hungry.’

  *

  Dinner had been cold-cuts and salad, and the two Travellers sat on the veranda, contentedly sipping from large glasses of juice. Night was falling fast, as is normal at Rainbow’s End, and they watched it happen from two deep, comfortable chairs. A light breeze wafted along the length of the veranda, and under it, some crickets started their eternal “kri-kri, kri-kri”. One of Orson’s resident owls hooted.

  The old Traveller took another drink from his glass and stole a look at his grandson. The boy was staring at the star-strewn sky, and his dejection was almost palpable. He gave it time, and another minute later, the question came.

  ‘Where is Desolation, Orson?’

  Understanding dawned, and the shadowy planes of Orson’s face softened. ‘You’re thinking of the boy?’ he asked.

  Thomas nodded. ‘Eamon, yes.’

  Orson turned to the now completely darkened forest, above the tree-tops of which the white wheel of the moon was rolling slowly into the sky.

  ‘Desolation’s on the other side of the moon, Thomas,’ he said, ‘and it stays there: a frigid, frozen piece of rock where the sun never shines. Never.’

  ‘Can we Travel there?’ Tentatively.

  ‘No.’ Orson shook his head, and then shrugged. ‘No sun - no Rainbow - no Travel,’ he said, adding, ‘It’s a good thing too. We’ve no business there.’

  They were both silent for a minute then, lost in their own thoughts and listening to the night.

  ‘They can Travel during the day, can’t they - the Night Walkers?’ Thomas asked then, staring at the moon.

  Orson nodded. ‘They can land, yes - anywhere the moon is visible. Remember when I fetched you from Broken Hill?’ Thomas nodded in turn. ‘What they can’t do,’ Orson continued, ‘is leave again. Not until night-time, when it is dark.’

  ‘Why not?’ Thomas frowned in the half-light coming from inside the cottage.

  ‘Two reasons.’ Orson held up a finger. ‘One,’ he said, ‘they are not Travellers. And two,’ another finger joined the first, ‘their Crystals only work at night - in the dark.’

  ‘How do they Travel at all then, during the day?’ Thomas asked, puzzled.

  ‘They always leave from Desolation, Thomas,’ Orson replied, ‘and the moon there is always visible - it has three by the way. It is always dark, always cold…’ It was his turn to shiver, and he took a deep breath. ‘Unlike us,’ he continued again, ‘the Night Walker’s journey is controlled by Kraylle - Ariana’s brother. Their Crystals only allow them to take off. He determines where they land; he steers them once they are airborne, once they ride their Black Rainbow. He’s their Traveller, I guess you could say.’

  Visions of a frozen castle, set in a frozen, moon-lit, wind scoured landscape, had Thomas shiver once more, and Orson laid a consoling hand on his arm. ‘Don’t torture yourself, Thomas,’ he said. ‘We’ll get him back. You’ll see.’

  *****

  ‘Less puddings and ice-creams and other sweets, Arnold,’ remonstrated Annie. ‘It’s not good for the children; they need more veggies or they’ll become overweight… or sick. I wish you’d keep to the menus we agree on…’ With “I knew it�
� looks John, Izzy and Frieda cast their eyes ceiling-wards.

  The chef folded his arms, and his tone was obstinate. ‘I don’t see any fat children around Rainbow’s End,’ he said. ‘Nor sick ones, for that matter. Do you?’ He tried staring Annie down and failed.

  ‘The first is because they’re always active,’ she replied, ‘and the second because there’re no germs at Rainbow’s End. You know that, but it’s still no reason to skimp on healthy foods like cabbage and other vegetables.’

  Arnold leaned forward, and gripped the edge of the table. ‘I will not have cabbage in my kitchen,’ he declared vehemently. ‘Or broccoli. They both smell.

  ‘Excluding them,’ he leaned back with a haughty sniff and gave a ceremonious wave at its closed swing-door, ‘you are welcome to use my kitchen at any time to prepare these “wholesome” and “healthy” meals of yours.’ He gave a supercilious smile and played his trump card then.

  ‘I don’t know who’s going to eat them though. You’d probably find yourself with a lot of not-hungry children of a sudden… and Rainbow’s End infested with swarms of fast-food vendors,’ he added, after a reflective pause.

  Big John stopped them then. ‘Enough, you two,’ he said. ‘We go through this every month, and end up with no solution. Let’s go on to other matters. Izzy?’

  The lanky old Traveller shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said. ‘The eleven children who have gone back in the last two months, have all settled back in with no problems: four in our children’s homes in England and Ireland, three in the States, one in Australia and one in Russia. The other two are back in their own homes: they haven’t been missed.’ He turned to a still petulant Arnold. ‘If you have it ready, Arnold, could I have the list of food-stuffs and other things you need for next month? I plan on leaving early tomorrow morning.’ Arnold got up off his chair and disappeared into his kitchen, and Izzy frowned. ‘Is it my imagination,’ he asked, ‘or is he losing weight?’

  Everybody shushed him with fingers held before their lips and big eyes, which earned a suspicious glare from the chef, who came crashing back through the swinging door. He wore (forever hopeful), the same T-shirt as on the previous month’s meeting - the one saying “If you liked the food - Kiss the Chef” - and in his right hand, secured by a safety chain to his wrist, a large soup ladle. He wordlessly handed Izzy the folded list, and then said, with an aside, venomous glare at Annie, ‘If you have space left, bring me more ice cream.’

  She uttered a long-suffering sigh, then turned to Big John. ‘Edith wants to know how time-lines and curves work,’ she said, adding, after a second, ‘I guess we’d all like to know more, as long as you keep it simple. Remember - we’re not all Physicists.’

  John let his eyes travel around the table. Edith, Frieda, Annie and Izzy, they all sat watching him in expectation; even the huffy Arnold stood waiting. ‘All right,’ he said, and got to his feet. ‘Please pick up your drinks.’ Everybody complied, and at a sweeping glance from the giant, everything on the round table - except the white tablecloth - lifted and then floated off, gently setting on an adjacent table.

  ‘Now, Edith,’ John said, singling out their guest to address himself to, ‘imagine this table as the Earth.’ He waved the flat of one large hand back and forth over its white-clothed surface, then reached across and took a squeeze-bottle of tomato sauce from the next table. ‘The Earth,’ he said, and uncapped the bottle, ‘has been divided into strips by man.’ He began squirting vertical lines of red, starting with a straight one bisecting the tables centre, then others, starting and ending at the same points top and bottom, but curving ever further outward, the further away from the centre they got. ‘These strips,’ and he pointed with the red nozzle, ‘are separated by imaginary lines.’ More sweeping and pointing with the nozzle. ‘Lines which we call longitudinal - or time lines.’

  He stepped back and changed the tomato sauce bottle for a yellow mustard one, regarded his handy-work from a few feet away, and then stepped in again. With long sweeping strokes, he commenced squirting horizontal yellow lines from left to right, bisecting the red at more or less right angles. Arnold was watching the desecration of his once pristine tablecloth with open-mouthed bemusement, the ladle dangling from his wrist, forgotten.

  ‘These are latitudinal,’ John said, ‘and indicate position. Together, longitudinal and latitudinal lines form squares and rectangles, which people on the Earth use to determine GPS, or Global Positioning.

  ‘The Universe,’ he looked at Edith, ‘is divided in the same way. Except for one very big difference: It has not been finished…yet.’ John paused for effect, before continuing. ‘The Earth’s shape is fixed, therefore coordinates remain fixed - they cannot move unless the Earth as a whole changes shape. The Universe, on the other hand, is expanding by the second, and not always at the same rate - or speed - in all or any directions. To put it simply: The centre of the Universe is not fixed. In fact, it rarely stays in one place for more than a few days; sometimes a fraction of a second, before shifting. Every bit of the heavens is subject to the Universal grid, every galaxy and every heavenly body within those galaxies. Including the Earth.’ He plopped a drop of mustard on one of the rectangles covering the tablecloth, and tapped it. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘the Earth might be here.’ He plopped another drop an inch away. ‘Tomorrow there,’ he said.

  He studied the tablecloth again for some seconds, and then continued: ‘So - we have Planetary coordinates and Galactic coordinates, and Universal coordinates as the ultimate - the supreme coordinates. Millions, billions, and trillions of coordinates, within millions and billions and trillions of coordinates, ad infinitum… Times and places within times and places, on and on… Dimensions within dimensions within dimensions… All of them subject to change all of the time…

  John took a deep breath. ‘The only possible way,’ he said, ‘to make sure of landing in a definite place at a definite time, is to use pre-determined time-lines and curves, and the only beings able of determining them, are the Ri-Ti-Ri - them that know it all: The astrologists, mathematicians and physicists of the gods…’

  Another deep breath, and Big John looked at Edith again. ‘Now, do you understand, Edith?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Edith frowned. ‘Are you saying time-curves that are suitable to Travel on, are determined by the expansion of the Universe?’ John nodded encouragingly, and she continued, albeit hesitantly, ‘and that these beings - these Ri-Ti-Ri…? are able to determine at what speed, and in which direction, it will expand - or will have expanded at a certain time, and using this information, can ascertain exactly which time-curve you need to Travel on, to get back to the Earth, at the same time, or even before, you left it in the first place…?’ Edith finished with a frown, which changed to a smile, when Big John slowly and loudly stated clapping his hands.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ he said, and giving her a wink, added, ‘You’ll make an excellent Physicist, Edith Carter.’

  But Edith was not completely satisfied. ‘But why only six months?’ she asked. ‘Why can’t people stay for nine or ten, even a year?’

  ‘Rainbow’s End is also six months ahead of the Earth in time,’ John said, ‘so, as long as a child - or adult,’ nodding at Edith, ‘is returned within that time-frame, he or she will not be missed.’

  ‘Also, Edith,’ Big John held up a finger, ‘remember that people get older - even on Rainbow’s End, albeit slower. And we can’t very well return a teenager when we took a seven year old, can we?’

  They all mulled over John’s lesson for a minute, and then Edith, still inquisitive, said-asked, ‘You haven’t explained how, or why, it is possible for one to return at a time before you left in the first place?’

  John shrugged. ‘That’s because I don’t fully understand it myself,’ he said, ‘save to say that it involves the aligning of certain grids - Universal, Galactic, and Planetary. The math involved would take me days, and even then, I probably would not get it right.’
>
  They all sat for another quiet minute then; staring at John’s tomato-and-mustard work of art, and finishing their drinks. Izzy finished first, and leaning forward, pushed his cup and saucer through the red and yellow lines, smearing them orange in places.

  ‘Well, if that is all then,’ he said, ‘I’m going to my room, and bed.’

  ‘Aren’t you staying at Orson’s?’ Annie asked, surprised.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he replied, and mumbled - as he did that morning at Ariana’s pool - something about dogs and babies and old men going soft in the head.

  Everyone stood then, and thanked Arnold for an excellent supper. The chef however, answered with only half his attention, and kept one eye on Big John all the time. He was ready then, when - eyeing his now-too-large T-shirt, the huge man took a step towards him; gripped the large spoon tighter and lifted it a few threatening inches.

  ‘Don’t you dare, John,’ he warned, with all traces of his fake French accent suddenly gone. The spoon lifted another few inches, threatening. ‘This time I’ll brain you…’

  Frieda saved the evening. With a soft smile, she stepped into Arnold’s open, ready to fight arms, and on tip-toes, gave the chef a soft, sweet kiss. The safety chain somehow slipped from around his wrist and over his hand, and the heavy spoon fell clattering on the tiles at their feet; the four spectators were clapping and cheering, and seconds later, when they left - Frieda with a backward glance that could have meant any one of a thousand things - Arnold was left standing. The same as a month before, but this time, dazed with happiness, his mouth puckered like a carp’s.

  37

  ‘It’s almost exactly as I imagined it would be,’ Orson said softly, wistfully. It was a beautiful English morning: The sun had risen from behind the trees to the east, and dew lay sparkling on the grass and flowers, wet on the red roof of the small white house. Its large windows - one in Thomas’ bedroom, and the other the lounge - looked like eyes; the green front door its nose, a brown Welcome-mat a mouth, or a tongue.