Leaning back in the old seat, straining up a to-heavy leg to thump his heel on the desk, John sighed. Looked out the dusty office window to see that even the sky had turned to lead.
Colder tonight.
With a chance of snow.
Heavy feet thumping somewhere behind him announced Dr. Paul, the chairman clumping up to squeeze his giant's body through the human-scaled casement.
"How ya' feelin' son?" Reared in Iowa, Paul took delight in butchering Southernisms.
"Tired."
"A cold will do that to you."
Elbowing the door shut, tossing a clutter of yellowed notes on his book piled desk, Paul sagged into his groaning chair.
Dressed conservatively in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and red golf slacks, Paul's "taste" in clothing belied a fine mind.
"Actually," John muttered, wishing to maintain the integrity of the lie he'd told the dean's secretary, "laryngitis."
"One thing I learned from experience is that laryngitis screws up the vocal cords for days."
"Which means ...?"
"That the age of miracles continues, since you're in good voice today."
Paul's stare had been known to shrink larger men than John.
"Another thing, is that a bad throat doesn't make a person's arms hang down like weights on a Grandfather clock. "So," Dr. Paul continued, smugly, "when did you get back?"
"Back?"
"From the other world. And don't try to look innocent. This is your wise old chairman talking. The only other time I saw you this bushed was when I came over to your place to hear your outlandish account of this other place, the night after you'd returned."
"Yeah," John said, defeated.
"I won't ask why you defied reason to risk another trip -- because it's none of my business -- but I would like to know you're all right."
"Just ... tired," John said, flashing a guilty smile in Paul's direction. "I do have a little problem, though."
"So ...?"
"So, could you come over this evening?"
"Yep."
"And bring Ellen, of course."
Paul scowled, worry lines gouging their way across his increasingly high forehead.
"Possibly," he muttered darkly. "Possibly. Ellen's doing a little better now."
Paul was talking about Ellen's pregnancy.
His mind made up, he smiled. "You paying for the baby sitter?"
"Sure."
"Not necessary. The question is, how would it affect Ellen to hear about your jaunt to someplace else? Hell! How would it affect anyone to hear there is another place?"
"I don't know. This is your call."
The last thing John wanted was to upset Paul's wife. If Ellen belonged to John, he'd protect her with attack dogs -- John quickly stopping that unprofitable line of thought.
"It's just that I'd like her opinion about something."
"The woman's touch," Paul said beatifically.
"I wouldn't ask you to bring your wife except there's another person involved."
"Oh?"
"Someone I ... brought back."
"Brought back? As in brought back from the other world? From ... Stil-de-grain?"
Hawaiian shirted Paul might look like a beach comber from hell, but he had a never-fail memory. Though he and John had hardly talked about the other world, Paul had remembered the name of the band that contained Hero Castle.
"Afraid so."
"Who?"
"Platinia."
"Platinia," Paul mumbled, running the big fingers of both hands through what as left of his hair. "The girl."
"The girl."
"And here I was thinking that -- living like a monk -- you didn't like girls all that much."
"I like girls," John said, careful not to sound defensive, Paul partial to humorously lewd suggestions about how John might improve John's love life.
"Platinia," the big man said to himself, using the name to trigger memory. "She the waif of a girl you looked after?"
John nodded.
"The one you thought might have magical control over you?"
John nodded again, at the same time waving a heavy hand to show doubt about Platinia's alleged powers.
Paul swivelled his protesting chair in John's direction. Grinned. "So what you're telling your department chairman is that you've got a little chickie stashed away at home."
"I wouldn't put it that way ..."
"I'll just bet you wouldn't!" Said with a good natured snort.
John shrugged. As stupidly as he'd handled things, he deserved to be kidded.
Grunting, Paul made up his mind. "Unless I call to say otherwise, we'll be at your place at 7:00."
"You sure?"
"If Ellen ever found out I'd kept something this juicy from her, I'd be sleeping in the streets."
Vintage Paul. Enjoying himself.
So it was settled. Paul and Ellen -- at 7:00.
* * * * *
The three of them, plus Cream who was allowing Ellen to hold her, were in the living room, the Hamilton's sitting side by side on the near end of the divan, John in a pulled-up "face" chair opposite them, the coffee table in between. Paul was at his wrinkled best in a bilious green, Western style shirt, tucked into the same bright red pants he'd had on that morning. The way he looked, a distant drunk was apt to report him as a traffic-light-gone-wrong.
Decidedly pregnant, Ellen looked lovely as always, a touch of lipstick glossing her full lips, her golden hair brushed into a gamin's helmet. She was wearing a dark, baby-hiding dress with a white, school-girl collar.
Platinia?
At least for now, John was letting the girl hide upstairs.
The Hamilton's were seated where they'd been at John's house-warming, the night John learned from Paul that the house was haunted.
My God, Ellen was gorgeous! In spite of the baby-bulge, had the fashion model look you didn't see on "real" women.
Everyone settled, Ellen asked the critical question. "What's the big mystery?"
Low, lush voice.
"Mystery," John replied, not ready to confess just yet.
"The reason for this evening's pow-wow. And don't tell me this is just another night of old folks' fun." Ellen smiled her sleepy smile. "I know my man," she continued, reaching out to touch Paul. "A woman can tell when something's up."
"You going to tell her, or must I," Paul growled, pretending to be unaffected by his wife's agonizing nearness.
"I will," John said, still unsettled about how to begin."
Before Paul and Ellen had arrived, John had laid a fire. Had brought in the bundle he'd carefully prepared.
"This will sound strange," he started slowly. You remember the last time you and Paul were here? The house warming party? Just the three of us?"
"And Cream," Ellen added, nodding, running her fingers through Cream's white coat, the cat's purr audible above the crackling of the fire.
"And we got it out of Paul why he was so nervous? That he'd heard I'd bought a haunted house, and didn't know how to tell me?"
She nodded.
"It wasn't long after that that I found the house wasn't so much haunted, as ... noisy."
"Noisy?"
"I discovered that ... the 'ghost' sounds ... were coming from a storage area under the hall stairs." John paused. Found the going easier now that he'd begun. "Heard rain. ... chanting."
"Chanting?" Said with interest, Ellen's eyebrows arching, her blue eyes wide.
"It was just about that time that I lost Cream."
"Lost ... this kitty?" Ellen looked concerned, even though Cream was clearly fine.
"That's right. I lost her ... under the stairs.
"When I bought this old house, it was unbelievable dry. No one had lived here for decades, probably because of the house's evil reputation. Just walking around, Cream charged herself with static electricity.
"One day when I had the storage door open, Cream darted in there ... and disappeared." John stopped. Started again. "And here
's the strange part. I couldn't see her ... but I could hear her mew.
"Crazy as it sounds, that gave me the idea there was another 'reality' that could be entered by getting charged up with static electricity and going under the stairs, that space a kind of passageway between here and there.
The hard part over, the rest of the tale tumbled out. The van de Graaff. The dead Mage, Melcor. The crystal. The bands, each with different gravity. Eyeland. Golden -- singer, gymnast, rope walker, knife thrower, burglar, and pretender to the Malachite throne. Zwicia -- though who could explain her?
John's rambling coming to an exhausted close, Ellen looked at Paul.
"Not a joke?" she asked, the rich timber of her voice sounding small, even in the quiet room.
Neither of the men spoke.
"Not a joke," Ellen whispered. "Not a joke ... and something more?"
Without further explanation, John stood. Walked to the package by the fire. Brought it back.
Unwrapping the paper, he took out Platinia's black robe. Spread it on the coffee table.
Paul bent to look at it. Shrugged. "Woven. Looks like its been made by hand."
Settling back, he grinned. "Could have been woven by some Indian tribe in South America."
"How about these?"
John took out both his and Platinia's hand-made shoes, putting them on top Platinia's robe.
"Impressive, but ...." Paul waved them away, as well.
Like any good showman, John had saved the best for last. "And ... this?"
With a flourish, John took out Platinia's under-robe of Cinnabar silk.
Unrolling the robe fully, he floated it on top the clothing pile.
"Ah," Ellen said, bending over as far as her "baby burden" would allow, first to smooth the white cloth with both hands, then to feel it between thumb and forefinger. "Look at this, Paul.
Paul bent down to touch the robe. Shrugged again.
"I've never seen anything like it." Ellen was impressed.
"A robe's a robe."
"But this is finer than silk. And I know silk." She looked up at John, eyes sober. ""You get more of this, and I'll open a boutique that will make us rich."
"It's special there, too. Fit for Mages. Kings. Etherials -- a title that needs explanation. It's called Cinnabar silk. Comes from the band of Cinnabar; unknown territory for the most part. Cinnabar's the outermost ring-country of the other world. Super-light gravity to hear people tell of it. Under a red sky. Most are scared to death to go there; talk in mystic terms about 'The Cinnabar.' Call it the land of the 'flyers.'"
"Wishing to convince us of your travels," Paul interrupted. "Don't I remember that you have another proof of passage?"
He meant Platinia.
And he was right. Time to produce the girl, whether she liked it or not, Platinia the reason for this "war council" after all, John needing all the advice he could get about what to do with her. Quiet advice.
"By accident," John said, aiming that fib at Ellen, "I brought someone back with me. A girl. A girl named Platinia. Only to find that I don't know what to do about her. And to make things worse, she barely understands me with I try to tell her something. It's a matter of the lack of magic here, magic automatically translating foreign language there. You should have heard me try to explain to her how to wear the clothes I bought her. She had no concept of what goes on ... first." John felt himself blushing. Hoped Ellen and Paul wouldn't notice in the semi-dark room.
Ellen was nodding. A hint of smile on her lips that John hoped was sympathy.
With a quick move to end his embarrassment, John excused himself to go up stairs.
And there she was on the bed, Platinia seeming not to have twitched since he'd left her to let in Paul and Ellen.
"I want you to meet these people," John said, Platinia still as stiff as a cadaver, legs together, arms rigidly at her sides. Lying there in the colorful blouse and pair of jeans he'd brought her, she looked like a sulky twelve year old. "Friends of mine. Only two of them. A man and his wife."
"A ... woman?" Platinia turned her head to look up at John.
"Ellen. That's her name. You'll like her. She's here to give me some advice about what clothes to buy for you. What you might like to eat."
And finally, responding like she did to direct commands, slowly, as if he'd used a whip to break her will, Platinia struggled to sit up; made it; her arms trembling with the effort. Weak, but also playing the martyr.
John felt sorry for her, though. Sorry she was suffering so much from what, to her, must seem to be crushing gravity. Sorry, because she was pathetic Platinia.
Relenting, John walked over to the bed to take her hands, to help her stand.
Arm around Platinia's waist, he supported her down the single flight of stairs, then into the living room.
Ignoring the Hamiltons for the moment, John scooted up one of the big chairs and backed Platinia into it, helping her to settle herself, Platinia drawing up her child's legs beside her.
In silence, John crossed to sit in his own chair.
"Hello," Ellen said softly, trying to avoid staring at the frightened girl, but managing to get a good look at her all the same.
Paul just ... sat. Though he'd been convinced before that John had been to Stil-de-grain, seeing this strange girl had stunned him. You didn't brush Platinia aside like hand-woven cloth, something too undeniable ... alien ... about her.
"This is Ellen," John said, indicating Paul's wife. "And Paul."
Platinia sat, arms wrapped around her legs, knees pulled to her chest.
Ellen took a breath. Held it. Then continued. "If you could have anything you wanted, what would you like?"
She doesn't speak much English," John put in. "And there's no magic ...."
"Home."
"You want to go home," Ellen repeated, getting a barely perceptible nod from the small girl.
"So?" Ellen was looking at John.
"That's the plan as far as I'm concerned. Unfortunately, we were run out of Stil-de-grain. So it's best to let the other world cool off a bit. Maybe a week." John held up his hand as Paul was about to protest. "I have no intention of going back for any length of time. But I just can't charge up Platinia and push her under the stairs. It's a matter of ... honor, if you like. Like taking the same girl home you've invited to the prom.
"Seriously, I want to make sure its safe to leave Platinia in Hero castle." He hurried on. "I don't see that as a problem. Just to go back with her. Get in. Get out."
"About clothing for Platinia, I could do a little shopping," Ellen volunteered. "I'd like that. I've never gotten to shop for an older girl. It'd be fun."
"That great!"
"Look," Ellen put in softly, pointing.
Platinia.
Asleep in the great chair. Tousled hair above her pretty-child face.
"I know," John whispered sympathetically. "Imagine how tired she gets. Weighted down as she must feel."
"Though it'll be a stretch," said pregnant Ellen, dryly, "I'll do my best to imagine how 'weighted down' she feels."
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Home from school, the first thing John did was call, "Platinia?"
He took off his coat, hanging it on a wall hook in the short entrance way. Draped his scarf over the same hook. "Platinia?"
Probably upstairs. Asleep.
Climbing to second, a quick peek in his bedroom showed him she wasn't asleep on the bed.
He crossed the hall to assure himself she wasn't in the spare bedroom -- though what she'd be doing in that room, he couldn't guess. He used it for storage space. Had shoved some boxes of junk in there, plus a couple of pieces of his parents' furniture he hadn't been able to use.
In the up stairs hall again, looking past the bedrooms, John saw that the door to the antique bathroom was open. No Platinia in there.
All possibilities checked off on second, John trotted down the stairs, feeling good physically but beginning to worry. If Platinia wasn't s
leeping on the living room couch ....
And she wasn't. Nor was she in the kitchen. Or in John's den.
Entering the front hall again, John had a wild thought. Was it possible Platinia had found some way to use the static electric generator he'd left under the stairs?
No.
The triangular door under the hall stairs was closed and the catch in its keeper. Since the door could be fastened from both inside and out, she could be back there.
Just to be certain, getting down on his knees on the hall floor John unlatched the door and looked inside. .... No tiny girl to be seen.
Meaning ... no Platinia!
Latching the wedge-shaped door, standing, John out of places to look, he felt his heart begin to skip beats. No need to panic, he told himself. At least, not yet.
To settle himself down, John forced himself to cross the hall. To go into his den. Made himself sit in his familiar chair. At his familiar desk.
Something had happened to Platinia.
Someone?
No. He didn't believe anybody had kidnapped little Platinia. If a stranger had been in the house, something would be out of place. And nothing was.
No.
Platinia had wandered off.
Wandered off and gotten lost?
John couldn't make himself believe that. There was no way she could lose her way in the scraggly patch of woods surrounding the house.
Slowly, deliberately, head in his hands, elbows on his desk, John reviewed the possible explanations of Platinia's disappearance. Could come to no other conclusion than that Platinia had ... run away.
Run away became she was terrified of being here!
But to leave the house knowing she would enter a world where she lacked the most basic of survival skills?
John had only one thought. Phone Paul.
And John was up and striding across the front hall into the living room.
Sitting quickly on the far end of the divan, he picked up the phone and dialed his office. If only Paul .....
Five rings. ... Six. ... And the receiver at the other end was picked up. "Paul Hamilton."
"Paul, it's John.
"How 'ya doin'?"
Ellen Under The Stairs Page 4
