by John White
He stared at the moon-washed glade in astonishment. "I think I'm dreaming," he breathed. "But everything is so real."
As was his habit in moments of perplexity, he reached for his glasses to clean them. But his glasses were not there. Yet his vision was sharp. Cautiously he felt for the string around his neck. This time his fingers encountered a fine gold chain and he pulled it over his head to inspect it. With a sigh of relief, he saw the ring and the locket hung from it Puzzled, he replaced it round his neck.
"It is a dream. It must be." He could see wild flowers in the moonlight and knelt to pluck one, to test the dream hypothesis. He felt the stalk between his fingers, heard the snapping sound as he broke it, felt it tickle his nose as he raised it and the unmistakable scent in his nostrils as he breathed in. He threw the flower away and rested his hand on a tree trunk, feeling the rough bark under his palm. "Dreams aren't like this." But if it wasn't a dream—what was it?
As he stared at the hand against the trunk, he made another discovery. He could see, or thought he could see, the bark through his hand. Indeed the harder he stared, the fainter his hand became and the more clearly he could see the bark.
It was the same with his feet, through which he could now perceive earth and flattened leaves. Yet his body and the various parts of him all felt warm and solid. There was nothing ghostly or insubstantial about the way he felt, and certainly he had hit the ground with a wallop on his arrival. But where had he arrived from? His memory was patchy. He could remember nothing just prior to hitting the ground. He knew Grandma Wilson had died, but he could not recall anything that happened after he had found her. He was dreaming. Yet the dream was like no dream he had ever dreamed before.
Whoomph! The sound startled him from his thoughts. Ten yards in front of him on the glade a strange old man lay sprawling on the grass, as though he had been dropped there from the skies. John was too surprised to do anything but stare.
The old man sat up, gaunt and withered, his eyes flashing with annoyance. He snatched a conical cap from the ground and placed it on his head so that his white hair flowed from under it to fall over the shoulders of his dark robes, there to mingle with the foaming cascade of a beard that tumbled over his chest. A wooden staff lay on the ground and he snatched it up and helped himself slowly to his feet, to stand tall and straight
The added height from his conical cap made him an impressive but slighdy comical figure. He raised his staff before him and stared at it wrathfully. "That was not the order I gave you," John heard him mutter. "Now, take me back!"
The staff slowly began to glow, increasing its light until it transformed the figure of the wizard (for that is what John took him to be) into a column of blue fire. Then he disappeared. The space he had occupied was empty. The glade remained as it had been before.
John reached for his glasses again and again found they were not there. "I wonder who that was—"
Whoomph! Once again the wizard lay on the ground at the same spot, his conical hat on one side, his staff on the other. Instantly he sat up. "Well!" Again he snatched up his staff, this time examining it closely. "I don't see—what in the name of sense? . . . Well, let's try again!" He reached for his hat, rose creakily to his feet, straightened his ancient frame, and again ordered the staff to "take him back"
The blue glow increased as it had on the first occasion. Then as it reached a certain shining intensity, the wizard, the staff and the glow abruptly disappeared. John shook his head in wonder, staring at the empty spot He felt lonely and hoped the old man would return again. He was not disappointed.
Whoomph! The wizard was back—sprawling on the grass as he had been the first time. John suppressed a snicker and watched the old man, fascinated.
This time the wizard did not stand. He sat up, then for several minutes sat shaking his head. He did not even collect his hat and his staff. "Humph. And humph again" he said. "This is indeed a pretty turn of events." He shook his head several more times. Then he said, "It is indeed. Yes, indeed. I haven't the least idea where I am."
He paused again as he reached for his hat and adjusted it carefully on his head. "I could, I suppose, try for some other place. But I have the distinct feeling, the very distinct feeling, that some large hand keeps throwing me back here. If the hand is the hand I'm thinking of. . . Ah, well. . ." He rose to his feet and picked up his staff.
John began to wonder whether he should speak to the wizard, but at that moment he saw the strangest trio approaching from the top of the glade. The dwarflike creatures, which one day he would learn to call Matmon, were accompanied by a female fox—a vixen. A thin circlet of gold crowned each of the Matmon, both of whom were broad, battle-chested and big-bellied. The one wore a long beard, white like the wizard's. He wore a leather jerkin, rough woolen pants and tall leather boots. The other, who looked like his wife, wore a leather dress and tall boots, while her hair was done in two white plaits falling over her shoulders. Five yards from the wizard the trio stopped with their backs turned to John. The wizard regarded them gravely.
The vixen advanced a pace or two. She behaved as though she was the leader of the party. To John's astonishment, either she began to speak or else one of the dwarfs was a ventriloquist. "You must be Mab, the magician," she said politely.
"For my sins, Madam, I am. But who are you?"
"Welcome, Sir Magician. I am the founder of our company. I present to you their majesties King Bjorn I, sovereign of all Matmon, and Queen Bjornsluv, who have joined me in my quest."
The wizard bowed gravely. "It seems that you were expecting me here."
"I summoned you."
The wizard was plainly startled. "You summoned me} By what power? In whose name?"
The vixen answered, "I had a vision last night in which one appeared to me named Mi-ka-ya, the Changer. He bade me take the stone from my left ear and use it to summon you. There is another stone like it, that hangs from my right ear. Look at it for yourself." Even from where John stood, he could see a strangely luminous stone that seemed to draw light from the moon and glow with soft beauty.
The wizard stooped to examine the stone between his fingers for several minutes. "It is a pross stone," he said slowly as he straightened his back "A large and powerful one. I think I begin to understand. So you summoned me. I can't say I enjoyed the experience. What is it you want of me?"
King Bjorn spoke for the first time. "I and my wife here, along with a hundred faithful Matmon, have been joined by Folly, king of donkeys. We have renounced the service of the Mystery of Abomination. We travel to an island called Geburah and a lake called Nachash. We wish to serve the Regents. The prophecies say the Regents are to appear there—"
"That is correct."
"—that they will come from a garden inside a tower—"
"That is also correct"
"—and that they will do so at the close of this century."
The wizard's eyes were fixed on King Bjorn. "What is it then that you want from me?"
But it was Queen Bjornsluv who answered him. "We simply want you to guide us to Lake Nachash and to protect us from the powers and malice of the Mystery."
The wizard sighed, and for many seconds he remained silent Then he sighed again. "Sit down," he said, easing himself cautiously to the ground himself.
"I wish I could be more sure," he said when once he was seated. "But how certain can anyone be of these prophecies? If they are true, they must be fulfilled during the next three years. Ninety-six years of this century have now passed and as yet there is no sign that the prophecies will be fulfilled. Moreover several things must happen before the Regents can appear."
He frowned and shook his head. "Is there a tower on the Island of Geburah? I haven't been there for a couple of hundred years. But there was no sign of a tower when I was there last. And, about the Mystery, that evil being from whom you are trying to escape. You know better than I his power, his malice and his subtlety. The prophecies say he will attack the island persistently before
the Regents come, from the vile swamps he will create along the shore of Lake Nachash. If the prophecies are true, we may have to cross those swamps to get to the lake."
He paused once more and his face was clouded with doubt and sadness. "I have, of course, a personal grief over the prophecies. Their fulfillment means my death. I have lived here since the dawn of Anthropos—for five hundred and ninety-six years. Even though the promise made to me remains unfulfilled, the coming of the Sword Bearer ushers in the time of my death—"
"The Sword Bearer?" King Bjorn interrupted.
"Yes, the Sword Bearer. When he appears we shall know that the rest of the prophecies will come to pass. And it is the Sword Bearer who will slay the prince of goblins, the day the Regents arrive. When the Goblin Prince is slain, the Mystery of Abomination will leave Anthropos—and on that day Mab the seer will die."
For a while nobody spoke. John did not want to intrude, but he felt a strange desire to talk to the little group on the grass. He stepped forward hesitantly and began to walk slowly in the moonlight toward them. As Mab caught sight of him he started, then struggled to his feet, his eyes wide with sudden excitement. He pointed at John and John stopped. John could see his face had become pale.
"There he is!" he cried hoarsely. "There he is! It is the Sword Bearer!"
"I see a shape, a ghostly shape, but that is all I see," Vixenia breathed.
Bjorn and Bjornsluv swung round, but it was plain to John that they could not see him. Mab brushed past them to stand facing John. "You are here, yet you are not here," he breathed, "for your body is transparent I can also see that you see us, for you are looking me in the eye. Sword Bearer, what is your name? From whence do you come?"
"My name is John Wi—"John began. But he was interrupted by cries almost of terror from the pale lips of Bjorn and Björnsluv, who heard a voice but saw nothing.
"Remember that voice!" the wizard cried, "you will hear it again! Now I can be sure that the Regents will come to the Island of Geburah."
But John could hear another voice, a familiar voice, the voice of Mrs. Smith. The glade, the wizard, the vixen and the Matmon king and queen began to fade from before his eyes. Mrs. Smith's voice was growing louder. "Young John? No—young John's still asleep, poor little lamb! But come inside!"
Suddenly he was back in the dingy little back bedroom at the Smith's house. Morning sunlight streamed through the window. He sprang to his feet. He had failed to get away in time. It was eight-thirty. He should have left by now. He must lose no more time.
But John Wilson's escape was to prove more difficult than he had anticipated.
4
* * *
SIap foot Comes
for John
"Mind you, Nicholas Slapfoot, I must say I'm a bit surprised to see you 'ere," Mrs. Smith's voice continued.
Nicholas Slapfoot? Old Nick? John was stunned. What could Old Nick want at the Smiths'? His heart rose slowly toward his mouth.
"It's about young john Wilson. I 'ear 'is gran'mother's passed away. I know I'm not much of a good neighbor. But there comes a time when everyone should giv' an' 'elpin' 'and, an' I think I'd like to give one now."
"Well, let me take you into me parlor—into th' sittin' room then. Parson and th' lady almoner's both in there. They come a little while ago .. ."
John leaped out of bed in a panic. His shoulder was throbbing furiously, but he gave it no thought. What in the world did Old Nick want? Suddenly his danger seemed to have doubled. He would have to move fast. But how could he get past the parlor door without being detected? He crept to the top of the stairs, sail fully dressed and, checking to make sure his money was in his top pocket, listened cautiously to what was happening below.
The voices, though slighdy muffled, were still clearly audible. And they were talking about him. A woman's voice was saying, "It's very sad, Reverend, but there's almost nowhere I can place him right now. Obviously something has to be done. I gather there are no relatives we can contact."
Mrs. Smith interjected. "This 'ere's Mr. Nicholas Slapfoot— 'im as runs th' scrapyard. Excuse me interruptin' but 'e says 'e wants to 'elp."
"Er, good morning, Mr. er—"
"Slapfoot's the name, Reverend, an' I'm real sorry to 'ear what's 'appened. It's a pleasure to meet you both. I always did say neighbors was for 'elpin' an' if money can 'elp, I've got plenty."
"Well, that's very generous of you, I'm sure, Mr. Flatfoot." The minister had a high-pitched, preachy voice. "But I don't think we will need to avail ourselves of your generosity. There must be funds available somewhere."
There was a pause, and then the lady almoner said quietly but firmly, "There are no funds, Reverend. As I told you, I have contacted all the available sources in the city. There is still what we used to call the poorhouse—but he's only a child. And there's a matter of his education. The local orphanages are full, or so they claim. Even county funds are no longer available."
" 'Ow would five 'undred pounds 'elp? 'Ere's th' money in me own 'and. Take it an' count it for yourselves. Or is me money not good enough?" Nicholas was almost shouting.
John heard Mrs. Smith (who must have been listening from the kitchen door) give a loud gasp. In the front room there was only stunned silence.
"I know a special school on th' other side of Manchester. Friend o' mine runs it," Old Nick continued. Clearly he had everybody's attention now. "The discipline's a bit on th' firm side, but five 'undred pounds would give 'im food, board an' a good ed-you-KAY-shun for three years. I'll even take 'im there meself. It's not often I do good, but I want to do it for young John.. ."
"Mrs. Smith!" the lady almoner called. "Mrs. Smith, would you be kind enough to come and join us for a few minutes? I feel we need your advice. You know John better than any of us."
John heard Mrs. Smith scurry from the kitchen door into the parlor and close the door behind her. He was absolutely sure Nicholas Slapfoot was up to no good. The parlor door was now closed and he realized he could creep past it unseen.
Holding his breath, he started down the stairs. He stopped momentarily when a stair creaked, but he felt certain no one had heard. He crept in perfect silence past the parlor, silently opened the front door that led to the street and crept outside. It was a clear day. The sky was blue, and a wind was blowing. His heart suddenly lifted. He turned to close the front door as quietly as he could, but at that point tragedy struck The wind pulled the door out of his hand and slammed it shut with a sound that seemed to John like a clap of thunder. He turned and ran for all he was worth for Ellor Street.
By the time he reached the corner voices were calling him back "It's all right, young John. There's nothing to be scared of, lad. You're goin' to be all right" That was Mrs. Smith.
And at the same time the reverend was squeaking, "Come back, my boy, come back! No one is going to hurt you."
But worst of all was Nicholas Slapfoot "Young John, young John Wilson! I said I'd come for you, an' I'm comin'. I'm comin' right now!"
John turned the corner and ran so that his feet seemed not to touch the ground. Peter's! Peter Shufflebotham's! He had to get to Peter's house for the four pounds. Peter would understand. He dodged down a side street and peeped back round the corner. No one had so far reached the corner of Pimblett's Place and Ellor Street He still had a chance if he ran fast enough.
In and out, down entries and among the winding streets he ran. At last he was hammering at Peter's door. "Mrs. Shuffle-botham! Mrs. Shufflebotham! Is Peter there?"
The door opened and a fat lady looked at him in amazement "John Wilson! Whatever's the matter, lad? There's no need to carry on like that!"
But at that moment John heard the voice of Nicholas Slapfoot "There 'e is! 'Urry up, Reverend. 'E's right 'ere, the mean little brat!"
John turned, astounded to see how fast the cripple could move. How had he known where to look for him? John was sure he had shaken all his pursuers off. In the distance he could hear the high-pitched squeak of the minister,
"Wait oh, do wait! I can go no farther!"
John certainly did not wait but ran with all his might running faster than he had ever run in races for his school or his city, dodging down side lanes, entries, climbing over walls as the cries died down slowly behind him. He was breathless but thinking clearly. He was now near the Cross Lane end of Ellor Street where his favorite secondhand bookstore was located. If only he could get inside it unobserved and hide among the bookshelves, he could recover his breath and have time to think. He would not be far from the bus stop for Victoria Station.
When he reached the bookstore the door was open, and he slipped inside unobserved by his friend Mr. Bloomenthal, the owner. Quietly he made his way to the shelves at the back of the store, pulled a book off the shelf and did all he could to quiet his breathing.
In the bookstore there was silence. John's heart began to beat more slowly. The pain in his shoulder had died away. He stared unseeingly at his book, listening intently. Minutes, seeming like hours, crawled by punctuated only by the occasional shuffling steps of Mr. Bloomenthal (who was still unaware of John's presence) and the sounds of books being pulled and pushed on bookshelves. John's legs ached from standing so still.
When the door opened again, the bell rang loudly, and an agonizing jolt of pain shot through John's shoulder, causing him to drop the book he was holding. Old Nick's voice sounded, "We're lookin' for young John Wilson. 'Is granny died last night an' 'e run away. We know 'e sometimes comes 'ere an' we wondered if. . ."
"Eee, I'm right sorry to 'ear it. Nice young lad. Often comes 'ere but 'e's not 'ere now. Leastways I've not seen 'im. Shop's empty as far as I know . .."
But at that moment John sneezed, and both men moved toward the shelves at the back of the shop. In panic John turned to see a stairway leading down to a cellar, and with his heart beating wildly he followed the steps into a dimly lit room filled with piles of unsorted books. He could hear the two men approaching the top of the stairs. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating. A door at the back of the cellar seemed his only hope of escape and he seized the handle. It vibrated startlingly in his hand, but he turned it and advanced in desperation, suddenly finding himself surrounded by strange blue light He closed the door behind him.
