by C. A. Gray
They all sat and stared for a long moment, Peter and Lily refusing to look at each other. Peter looked at the torches for inspiration, at the books, at the ladders. He stood up again and started pacing just to burn off a bit of anxiety. “Seventh seven… well, it can’t mean the same as the ages before that, because we already said that was fifteen hundred years, and if seven and seven were centuries, that would put it at fourteen hundred. I have no idea what less eleven means, though.”
“It could mean the Child of the Prophecy would be born between 1400 and 1500 years!” said Cole hopefully. “That would still mean around now…”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t tell us anything more than what we already know,” said Lily. “I don’t think the prophecy would be redundant like that. Plus that would imply the Child of the Prophecy was born sometime last century, not now.”
Several seconds later, Cole said tentatively, “Well, I know this is probably way too obvious. But Pete, your birthday is July 7th. Of course that still doesn’t explain the eleven bit…”
Peter looked up at him sharply. All the color drained from his face.
“What?” said Lily anxiously, looking from Peter to Cole.
“Isdemus’s ring,” Peter moaned. “July 7th. I’m a cancer in astrological signs.” No, he thought. No, no, no.
“Huh?” said both Lily and Cole at once, and Lily said anxiously, “Peter, make sense. So what?”
“The symbol for cancers is the crab. If you look up the older way to draw it, it’s like this.” Peter drew on the floor with his finger the symbol of two upside down nines, facing each other. His heart raced. He hoped one of them could prove him wrong.
“What does that look like to you?”
“Twins?” said Cole hopefully.
“No, the twin symbol is Gemini,” Lily said, and answered Peter, “It looks like the yin yang symbol, from Taoism. And from Isdemus’s ring. I saw it too.”
Peter nodded, and drew the second symbol beside the first.
“It’s a symbol of hope, signifying darkness merging into light, or the new dawn,” said Peter. “Maybe that’s why Isdemus wears it…”
“It’s also known as the Taijitu!” Cole interrupted. Peter and Lily both looked up at him sharply; he was holding a sheet of parchment from the book that had dislodged as it had fallen to the floor. The parchment bore the second symbol that Peter had drawn, and its name was carefully printed beneath it, in English.
Peter felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “That’s not possible!” he persisted doggedly. “The symbol is old enough, but it’s from the completely wrong part of the world. There was virtually no communication between Asia and Britain in Arthur’s day…”
“Not according to this,” Cole interrupted, and read from the page, “‘The Taijitu dates back to the fourth century. It first appeared in the Roman Notitia Dignitatum from the bold insurrectionists against Caesar… the symbol became contraband when Romulus Augustus outlawed soothsaying in order to prevent the prophecy from spreading. The early Watchers adopted the Taijitu as their symbol after Arthur’s death, signifying the coming of the Child of the Prophecy.’”
Peter sank to his knees as the room began to swim. He was afraid he might be sick.
“Wait a second,” said Lily. “What’s the less eleven mean, then?”
“The calendar change,” said Peter bracingly. “In Arthur’s day they were on the Julian calendar. When they switched to the Gregorian calendar in Britain, we lost eleven days. My dad…” he swallowed, “made a point of telling me that, over and over. I just thought he was being… well, Dad. I stopped trying to figure out why he said things like that a long time ago.”
“So Isdemus wears the Taijitu because it’s the symbol of the Child of the Prophecy,” said Cole softly. “The firstborn, 1500 years after Arthur’s death, born on July 7th under the sign of the cancer… Pete. It is you.”
“Guys,” said Lily, who looked nearly as ill as Peter. “I have to tell you something.”
Peter looked up at her, with barely a flicker of hope.
“My birthday. It’s July 7th too.”
***
Henry walked very purposely down the hall with his arm slung around the shoulders of his older son. His wife walked at his side apprehensively but said nothing. They were headed towards the front exit, although privately Brock wondered if they really intended to walk all the way through Carlion, and then through the Enchanted Forest, in the middle of the night. Also, Isdemus said his car had been returned to his home, so even if they got to the other side, they would have no transportation. Plus, they had absolutely no idea where Carlion was in relation to Norwich. His dad was in a mood, though, so Brock didn’t point out any of this.
“Excuse me,” said a stiff voice behind them. Brock turned to see the lithe, glowing elf who had come to find them in the Enchanted Forest earlier that day. He was dressed in a soft greenish gray like no sort of cloth Brock had ever seen before. “I was told to follow you and take you down to the Commuter Station.”
“Finally! Something normal around here,” said Henry irritably, but with obvious relief. Evidently he had been thinking along the same lines as his son. “You have an Underground, then?”
“No,” said the nimbus, looking rather amused. “We have a Commuter Station. Don’t tell him what it is,” he added to Brock, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’d like to see him try to explain this one away.”
They descended the stairs in almost total silence, except for the sounds of their footsteps. Henry’s silence was swift and brusque, as if talking could only slow them down. Brock’s silence was ill at ease. He had been anxious to leave and disgusted with the whole place until his father had shown up, which had been precisely what he had wanted. Now that he was here, though, Brock felt the same sense of expectation he always felt around his dad, though he could never put his finger on exactly what was expected of him. Mrs. Jefferson was silent because she was worried: worried about Cole, worried about Peter, worried about Peter’s dad, and worried about how she would ever find Carlion again once they left, because of course she had to find it again.
“This is the Commuter Station,” said the nimbus when they arrived.
Henry stared for a moment. “It’s a hallway of lousy photographs.”
“Is he always this pleasant?” said the nimbus to Brock, but the question was obviously rhetorical. Then he led the way to the photograph of a gnarled old tree and gestured at it. “This one will take you to the edge of the forest. Walk twenty paces directly in front of where you land and you’ll find yourselves at a bus station. The buses still run through the night, I believe, but you may have to wait up to an hour. Do you have money for the fare?”
“Of course we have money,” said Henry haughtily.
“Fine. Just walk straight at the photo until you feel it start to pull you forward.”
Henry stared at him incredulously. “Then what?”
“Then it won’t matter what you do, because you’re going in whether you like it or not.”
“What?” Henry snapped. “Don’t be absurd!”
“I’ll go first,” Brock muttered. Under ordinary circumstances, he would not have dared to contradict his father, but they had to get home somehow.
Henry scowled disapprovingly at his son, but did not protest. Brock stepped forward, and Henry regarded him with an expression of condescension… until Brock vanished into thin air. Mrs. Jefferson let out a small yelp and clamped both hands over her mouth.
“Where – where did he go?” Henry stammered.
“He went to that tree,” repeated the nimbus patiently. “In a few seconds you’ll follow him. Who’s up next?”
Mrs. Jefferson fairly jumped forward before Henry could stop her, and then she disappeared too.
“So, in you go,” said the nimbus, and he got behind Henry, who stood frozen in shock. The nimbus put both hands on either side of his back, shoving him forward. Instinctively Henry dug his heels in. “I haven’t got
all day,” the nimbus said in exasperation, and with a mighty heave, Henry stumbled towards the image of the Grandfather Tree.
All at once, it was as if he had crossed a threshold, and a thousand invisible hands grabbed him from all around and even from inside. Something compelled him forward, and no amount of struggling would subdue the inexorable force –
Green and black surrounded him. Henry blinked and took a moment to orient himself. The moonlight filtered through the canopy of trees, and behind him was the living image of the photo he had last seen inside the castle. He looked as ill-composed as Brock or Mrs. Jefferson had ever seen him.
“Well,” he said finally, because someone had to say something. “Well,” he said again. He brushed his suit off unnecessarily, and said in a tone of fierce confidence, “I suppose we go that way.”
“Right,” said Brock, exchanging a look with his mother. Her lower lip trembled just a bit but she said nothing. They walked.
“I suppose we have no choice but to take the bus,” said Henry disdainfully. Brock and Mrs. Jefferson both nodded mutely.
They waited in silence for fifteen minutes before the bus arrived, the only sound the rustle of the leaves above and the occasional impatient blustering noises from Henry, who seemed to have all but forgotten what had transpired moments before. Henry paid for the three bus fares without making eye contact with the driver. They didn’t speak again until about ten minutes into the ride, when Henry said, “I’ll be headed back to London in the morning. I don’t know if I’ll be home this weekend.” When no one commented either way, he added to Brock, “If we get home soon enough you can get to bed and still make football practice tomorrow morning.”
Brock nodded and closed his eyes. They stung but he didn’t know why. Perhaps they had just been open for too long. He’d slept enough the night before and the evening was still relatively young, but he felt that he could sleep for days, and days, and days… and maybe that still wouldn’t be enough to erase all that had happened. He wasn’t sure if he was anxious to get home or anxious to leave Carlion behind or just anxious in general. He opened his eyes again and looked around the bus, not really paying attention until it struck him that something was not right. Of course, many things would seem that way after the trauma of the last few days… ordinary life was bound to seem strange to him for a while. Was that all it was?
He kept looking around, trying to put his finger on the problem. The bus was purple and teal like a bad 80s movie. Apparently, the buses aren’t on strike anymore, he thought, but that wasn’t it. He rarely rode buses, but it wasn’t completely unheard of so that wasn’t the problem either. There weren’t many passengers, just a few here and there, sitting two to a seat, but some were two to one seat, which was odd since there was plenty of space, and –
Oh.
Brock felt like his stomach had dropped out beneath him. The second person next to each passenger was not a person at all. It was a creature. They all had a penumbra, just like Lily had said. The creatures were transparent this time, but he could still see every one of them. The driver had something like a purple squid attached to the back of his head. Why hadn’t that seemed strange before? Its tentacles oozed some sort of transparent liquid and roved about his body, in and out of his ears. Brock shuddered and looked away, to a young gothic-looking teenager with a hag sitting beside her. Its lidless eyes stared back at Brock with disturbing curiosity; it knew he could see it. He averted his gaze as fast as he could, but made the mistake of looking at his dad instead.
Apparently, his dad’s penumbra had tracked him down again very quickly, considering she had to have disappeared while he was in Carlion. She was an outrageously beautiful blonde, whose features in some small way resembled those of his mother in her younger and thinner days. She only had a torso, though, or at least that was all Brock could see of her. The rest was so entangled in his father that he couldn’t tell where his father ended and the specter began…
Instinctively he looked over at his mum. Her eyes bulged and her face was red, but her lips were as tight and thin as Brock had ever seen them. She was staring, not at her husband directly, but at the creature wrapped around him. Brock wasn’t sure what to make of the expression: was it jealousy, or fear, or loathing?
He leaned towards her and whispered to her in a voice little louder than a breath, “You can see it, can’t you?”
Mrs. Jefferson nodded almost as imperceptibly.
Then something very strange happened. The gothic teenager’s hag moved away from her, and came so close to Brock that he scooted back and flattened against the seat, trying not to look as alarmed as he felt.
“What’s the matter with you?” his father demanded.
“I –” Brock looked into the lidless eyes of the hag, and then he looked desperately to his mum for help.
“These seats aren’t very comfortable, are they, sweetie?” Mrs. Jefferson said immediately, with just the right amount of maternal concern. Brock felt a rush of gratitude.
“No,” he agreed, and explained to his dad. “My back hurts, that’s all.”
Apparently satisfied, the hag moved away from Brock’s face, but his relief was short-lived. Next it moved to his dad… but no, after a second he realized it wasn’t interested in Henry at all. It was talking to the beautiful blonde torso hanging on his father. She moved her head away from Henry’s far enough to listen to what the hag was saying to her, its creepy gaze never leaving Brock’s face. The blonde’s eyes grew wide and then narrowed at Brock, assessing him. He felt his stomach turn over.
“This is probably our stop,” Brock said quickly, and stood up. It was about a block from their house, and even if there was another stop that was closer, he didn’t mind walking. He wanted to get away from the nasty hag as quickly as possible.
His parents stood and followed him off the bus without a word, and they walked in silence, in the dark. Brock shivered against the night air, but he wasn’t sure if that was because of the chill or the gaze of the evil blonde on his back. He turned around involuntarily, and gasped before he could stop himself.
She was gone.
“What’s your problem?” Henry scowled at him again, and added disapprovingly, “You’re acting very strangely tonight.” Then when they approached the front walkway, Henry pulled his house key from his pocket and plunged it into the lock as he turned the knob.
Maybe she just isn’t there all the time, Brock reasoned. He knew Lily had said that unless a person was a Seer, his penumbra would hang around constantly. Still, Brock’s creature (he shuddered involuntarily at the thought) and his mum’s creature had not yet come back to discover that they had both become Seers. Maybe the blonde had gone to tell them. Yes, that will be it.
They entered the foyer, and suddenly Henry turned around very purposely, just before they reached the stairs. His large form blocked both his wife and son from ascending to bed. He looked very serious. “We will not be discussing the events of this evening again,” he said. “Not tonight, and not ever.”
Mrs. Jefferson let out a tiny whimper that sounded involuntary. “But – Cole –”
“Cole made his choice. If he chooses to return, fine. If he does not, we will tell the school that he has gone to stay with his cousin in West Wessex, and we will not speak of him in this house again. Is that clear?”
Mrs. Jefferson let out another involuntary sob, and then covered her face in her hands and pushed past her husband, running up to their bedroom. It was the first time Brock had ever seen her fail to comply fully with an outright demand from her husband.
Mr. Jefferson sighed. “Get to bed,” he said to Brock. “I’ll see you next weekend for your game. Maybe.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and trudged up the stairs after his wife.
Brock stood alone in the foyer. The one thing of which he was absolutely certain was that there was no way he’d be sleeping tonight. He paced for a few minutes, and then sat down on one of the buttery leather sofas in the living room. He sank his he
ad in his hands. He stood up again, and paced some more. He went to the kitchen, poured a bowl of cereal, and ate without tasting it. He paced again. He wasn’t really thinking about anything, but he had the uncomfortable sense that he was trying very hard not to think about something at the same time. He felt precarious. He had come back to this life of fragile normalcy that could be shattered in an instant if he let himself think all those thoughts that churned somewhere just beneath the relative calm of his consciousness. If he let himself think those thoughts, it might lead to conclusions, like everything I thought I knew is wrong, or like I shouldn’t have left Carlion, or what if something really did happen to Peter’s dad? If the penumbra were real (and they obviously were), then what else might be real also? Might there actually be a Shadow Lord who was their leader? Might there actually be a Child of the Prophecy appointed to fight and defeat him? Was it possible that Peter really did stop that accident from happening? Was it possible that Brock owed Peter his life?
That idea was intolerable. If it were true, then not only did Brock fail to acknowledge his debt, but he left when Peter needed his help.
He was sitting now, on a wooden-backed chair in the kitchen upholstered in plush tan velvet. Maybe I’m going crazy, he thought. After all, it had only been a few days since the accident, and the onslaught of creatures that had attacked them afterwards. He couldn’t explain two thirds of what he had seen in Carlion – he had only maintained some vague sense of normalcy while he was there with a persistent layer of denial. It was not that he actually denied what he saw, but he simply refused to acknowledge it. He was treading water until he could get home to the world he knew, the world where he was comfortable, the world where he was a star everywhere except in the presence of his dad.
Now he was home, though, and he wasn’t comfortable. He wasn’t comfortable at all. Something was very wrong, and pretty soon, if he stopped pacing for long enough, he was going to have to deal with it.
