by John White
Everything changed. His pain was gone. It was as though he had been dreaming and that now he had suddenly woken up. Or as though he had been awake but had walked into a dream.
His panic melted and in its place came the kind of feeling you get when you are inside a very large cathedral (if you've ever been in one). Although he could still faintly hear the voices of Slapfoot and the shopkeeper they sounded as though they were so far away that they no longer had anything to do with him.
His heart was still beating and he had the feeling that he ought to keep still and quiet, not because he was scared that someone might find him, but because he was in an important place, the kind of place where you are supposed to stand at attention and not move.
In spite of the blue light (a light that was inconceivably lovely) he could see nothing, nothing, that is, except the light itself. Yet he knew without being told that he was standing in a very large place. He could not even see his own feet, though he could feel vibrations on the floor beneath him.
Then came the gentlest rumble of thunder, the thunder of a quiet voice speaking. "Welcome, John Wilson. I am glad you have come."
To his surprise John began to cry. At least tears began to flow down his cheeks silently and his nose began to run a little. He fumbled for his handkerchief and used it.
"Are you afraid, John Wilson?" The thunder boomed majestically, echoing and re-echoing.
It was a thunder you had to answer. John found he was trembling, just like the floor to which his feet were rooted. "Yes. No—I mean, I don't know." And, silently, he cried more, releasing tears that were filled with relief and with other feelings he could never have named. He was afraid with a kind of fear he had never felt before. Yet in spite of his fear and his flowing tears he felt sure that all was well and that this beautiful, terrible place was also a place of safety.
"Why are you crying?"
"They're going to put me in some sort of orphanage and I don't want to go. Me granma died last night." These were the only reasons he could think of, but he was not sure that they explained his flood of tears. His handkerchief was getting wet and soggy, and he held it loosely in his trembling hand.
Suddenly he felt it being taken away from him, though he could detect neither movement nor sound around him. Indeed he could still see nothing except the impenetrable blue light Then warmth touched both his cheeks.
"What. . . ?"
"This is my bottle. You can feel it against your face," the thunder rumbled. "I am collecting your tears in it."
"Me tears? Why?" The words had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
"Your tears are important to me. I intend to keep them so that they will never be forgotten."
There was a long pause. He did not dare to ask more. If anything the strange words made John's tears flow faster, and yet the warmth against his cheeks was comforting. Slowly he became aware that the rest of his face was dry and that the warmth was gently moving up his cheeks, drying his face as it did so.
"Who are you,... please, sir?"
"I am the Changer, the Unchangeable Changer. I am the Beginner-Who-Never-Began." The words made no sense, and John dared not ask for an explanation but trembled all the more. "You now know your mother died, John Wilson. Yet of your father I will not speak at present."
The warmth was just below his eyes now, and though he broke into a smile even at the word father he could feel that his tears, if it were possible, were flowing faster than ever.
"When ... I mean, when will you speak of him, sir, . . . please?"
"When the time is fully come," the Changer rumbled.
For a moment John thought of his Grandma's words, "When you're old enough." But the Changer's words sounded different. They made him a little more certain, more hopeful, that his father would be found. But doubts still lingered. He was suddenly conscious of the string round his neck.
"Please, sir, will I have to go to the orphanage? I don't want to. I really don't. Please, sir, if you don't mind."
"That is why I called you here," the thunder replied.
John wanted to say, "But you didn't call me. I just came." Instead he said, "You mean I'll have to go back to them? I don't mind Mr. and Mrs. Smith (though Mr. Smith gets drunk every Friday night) but that Slapfoot. .."
"No. You will not go there. You will not return to Pendelton for many years."
"What's going to happen to me?" He began to do his best to speak "proper" English.
There was a long silence. John began to fear that the Changer might be angry with him. But after a few moments the low rumbling thunder continued. "You are going to learn about things that can be changed and about other things that cannot There are things that I change and others that I do not change. Perhaps I will let you join me in changing some things I intend to change."
John felt bewildered. He was trying hard, desperately hard to understand what the Changer was talking about but in the end he sighed and shook his head.
"Please, sir." His voice was unsteady. "Please, sir, I don't understand." He was working hard on his accent though the thunder didn't seem posh in any way. But school habits died hard.
"No, John Wilson. The time has not yet come for you to understand."
Again there was a pause. John began to feel a little less afraid. "Where will I live? Who will look after me?"
"I will look after you. As for the place where you will live for a while, I took you there last night"
"You took me .. . ?"
"You thought you were dreaming," the thunder echoed, "but as you will see the moment you go through the door, you were really awake."
"The door? The door behind me?" John could still faintly hear Nicholas Slapfoot "He's in there, that Old Nick..."
"There is no door behind you now. It was a door I made for you. No other eyes could have seen it When the mist ahead of you clears you will see two lines of cherubim and beyond them a door. At the foot of the door lies a sword. Pick it up, open the door and go through it"
John took a deep breath. "Please, sir, what's on ..
The rumble of thunder began almost as soon as he had opened his mouth, "You will see when you open it"
John had the feeling the Changer was smiling and he laughed a little nervously. "Sir, I'm scared. Not very scared. Just a bit"
The air around him was clearing and the warmth was gone from his cheeks. His flow of tears had ceased and his face was dry. He could see that a floor of the palest blue marble was spreading outward in a circle around him as the blue mist withdrew. Fear seized him. "Sir," he shouted, "are you going away?"
"No," the soft thunder rumbled from somewhere close to him. "You will not hear me often, and you will certainly not see me. But I will always be near you."
The circle of marble was now huge and John began to wonder how long it would take to cross it.
"Sir, what do cherubim look like?"
The thunder sounded more distant, and John felt that in spite of his promise the Changer was leaving him.
"Start walking forward, John Wilson!" the voice was more distant yet.
Tremblingly John began to place one foot after another. He was still shaking and found that he was sweating too. A sudden thought came to him and he shouted, "Sir, you didn't forget your bottle, did you?"
Then he heard the warmth of a thunderous laugh that seemed to fill the universe with merriment, and though it grew ever fainter he found that without lifting him up from the marble floor, the laughter caught him up into itself. He began to run, laughing as he did so, laughing helplessly and stopping from time to time to hug himself with inexplicable joy, before running on again, laughing and knowing that the laughter was a kind of link between them, a link which would never be broken.
At first he hardly noticed the two columns of flaming fountains, lined like rows of burning poplars on either side of him. When he did so he realized that under normal circumstances he would have been terrified. But the terror had been burned out of him for the time being and
he ran forward, still laughing, between the burning giants.
The door was ahead of him. He could see it clearly now. It was a small door, hardly big enough even for a boy to get through, and like everything else around, it glowed with pale blue light
Now he had reached it. "Pick up the sword!" the mighty voice of the nearest cherub called.
He had almost stepped on it in his mad rush. It lay at his feet, its handle jewel encrusted and its blade smooth and shining. It was heavy to lift. But the door was in front of him, and he leaped forward, the sword in his right hand. He seized the handle and turned it. lunging forward into total darkness.
5
* * *
The Lord
Lunacy
He was sure that for an instant there had been light as he came through the door. But it was certainly pitch-black now. Blackness enveloped him. Sword in hand, he leaned back for a moment against the door through which he had come, wondering what he was to do next. A faint current of air on his face told him that he was under the open sky. Cautiously he extended his right foot and slithered across the ground, which proved to be rough and stony.
Holding his left arm across his face as protection, he took a cautious step forward. So far so good. But where was he? Where was he supposed to go? The Changer had told him nothing. He extended his foot again to test the ground in front of him, and this time sensed earth, stones and dead leaves.
A sudden thought crossed his mind. Could he be in the woods he had dreamed about? It was a pleasing idea, and it injected hope into the situation. If he was in the woods he dreamed about, then he was the Sword Bearer. And if he was the Sword Bearer, something was certain to happen before long. He extended his left hand straight ahead into the darkness, groping to find what was ahead. Two more steps and his fingers brushed something solid. A tree trunk
A sudden stirring of the breeze brought to his ears the unmistakable sound of swaying branches and rusding leaves. He was in a forest But was it the forest of his dream? He caught his breath as yet another idea occurred to him. If he were in that forest, if he were the Sword Bearer, then there would be a scabbard on his left side, a scabbard into which he could insert the sword the Changer had given him.
For a moment he did nothing. For some reason he could not have explained, he wanted the scabbard to be there. But what if he was about to be disappointed?
He felt for his blazer, and his heart leapt as he discovered he was no longer wearing it. Instead of the familiar flannel, his fingers encountered the velvet Then as his downward-groping hand encountered the rough solidity of the scabbard, he gave a cry of delight Trembling, he lifted the sword and in the darkness both felt and heard it slide into the scabbard with a ringing shish and a click He was exultant He was in the same foresL And he was the Sword Bearer. Excitedly he fingered his velvet clothing. Once again his legs were bare except for the long crisscrossed thongs of his sandals.
Both his hands were now free. Holding them in front of him to protect his face from tree branches, he continued to make his way cautiously forward. A twig cracked loudly and he stopped. He glanced around, uncertain what to do. No twig had cracked under his own feet The sound had come from his right The wind had dropped and silence and blackness still wrapped him round. He could hear the air in his own nostrils.
Yet he knew he had heard the twig crack. What was it? He strained his ears and eyes. He thought he could make out the dim shape of trees, but he could not be sure.
"Hello! Is anyone there?" he said softly. There was no response. Gathering his courage he called out more firmly, "Hello! Hello there! Where are you?" But his words were swallowed by the oppressive stillness.
After a few seconds he groped his way forward again. From time to time the breeze stirred the leaves around him and he strained his ears to distinguish any other sounds of movement. Once he tripped over a root, stubbing his toe and narrowly avoided falling. Then suddenly he froze. He was sure this time. Something or someone was following him. A cold trickle of perspiration made its way slowly down his back
"I can hear you!" he called out loudly. "Who are you?"
For a moment nothing happened. Then his legs doubled from a hard blow to the backs of his knees. A heavy mass struck his chest and with a startled yell he crashed backward to the ground, the breath knocked out of him by his fall and by the ponderous weight on top of him. Hands seized his arms and legs, and course ropes bound them painfully together. He could hear the heavy breathing of more than one assailant and struggled fiercely at the feel of the ropes. But his struggles were useless. With surprising efficiency his captors quickly trussed him into helpless inactivity.
"Light the lamp!" a gruff voice ordered. There was the sharp sound of a flint being struck Then a second or two later the soft yellow light of an oil lantern lit the long beards and the rugged faces of two Matmon. They stared at him from above, John on his back, and the Matmon standing beside him, one of them holding the lamp high.
Bildreth knelt beside John, fumbling with John's belt and pulling belt, scabbard and sword from him. John's lips were pressed tightly together. He was both frightened and enraged. He never knew what made him say it, but suddenly the words came with surprising firmness and clarity, "The Sword Bearer and his sword cannot be separated for long. And those who try to separate them meet an ugly fate!"
Bildreth struck him sharply across the mouth, glaring hatred. Strange as it may seem, the blow drove John's fear away. Though he was bound and helpless, he felt a burning rage. He licked his lips, tasting blood that had already begun to trickle from the side of his mouth. Again he found himself talking, wondering where the impressive words came from. "He who strikes the Sword Bearer will encounter the wrath of the Changer."
Bildreth's arm shot skyward to strike him again, but before the blow could descend, the lantern bearer seized his wrist. "He is bound, Bildreth. And he is the Sword Bearer. Beware lest wrath overtake us. It is enough that we have bound him and taken his sword. Those were our orders. Beware that we meddle not with the great powers. The Lord Lunacy wishes only to speak with him."
Bildreth snatched his wrist from his companion. But he made no further attempt to strike John. Placing his fingers in his mouth, he whistled piercingly. "Folly!" he cried, "come hither!"
John stared at his captors. He could not remember seeing either of them in his dreams. The lamplight shone on their yellow leather jerkins and their bottle-green stockings. Their hair and beards were dark Bildreth was lean and his mouth, twisted and cruel. The lantern bearer was heavy, his stomach ballooning ahead of him. It was the lantern bearer's weight that had pinned John to the ground.
The sound of trotting hooves drew nearer and suddenly a donkey's gray muzzle loomed over John's head. The donkey eyed him with a mournful expression. "I must not presume to question the judgment of the Lord Gutreth," it said in deep and fruity tones, turning to the Matmon with the lantern, "but discretion—ah, I mean—ah—mistakes, as it were—if you take my meaning. No offense?"
"You do what we say and you ask no questions, King Folly," said Gutreth the lantern bearer with a smile. "Pick him up, Bildreth, and place him gently on Folly's back."
With surprising ease Bildreth lifted him, dumping him face downward across the donkey's back His face pressed on the buckle of one of the donkey's saddlebags. He felt both uncomfortable and desperately unsafe. It was hard to breathe and he had the sensation that he would slide to the ground any minute. It was frightening to have no hands with which to hold on.
The donkey repeated endlessly, "Quite so. Quite so. We must respect authority. I know that it is foolish of me even to mention the matter. But we must not put our heads into a noose, must we? Yes, yes, I know. Who am I to make suggestions? Ah, well. Such is life. Young heads on old shoulders. A stitch in time. It's an ill wind, etc., etc., etc."
At any other time John might have been amused by the donkey's endless patter. But at the moment he was more concerned about his extreme discomfort and the helpless sense of b
eing about to tumble off the donkey's back.
By a miracle he did not slide off as they made their way by lantern light along the twisting pathway that led upward. Only Folly the donkey spoke, in a dreary muttered soliloquy which the Matmon ignored. "Matters too high for me, of course. Humpty Dumpty and all that. How great shall be the fall of it. Pride goeth—and so on. I was a fool to say anything ..
At length they stopped and Bildreth lifted John from Folly easily, propping him in a sitting position against a tree. He then began rummaging through the panniers at Folly's side. But a startled cry from Gutreth arrested his movements.
"Hsst!" he cried, pointing. "Is it another, or is it the same? What magic is this?" John followed the direction of the Matmon's finger and perceived in the dimness just beyond the sphere of the lantern light a flat rectangular object that stood alone and erect among the trees. Gutreth approached it cautiously, holding the lantern high. It was a flat gray door bearing the number 345. John could see it was a door because it bore a handle. No wall surrounded it. Nothing appeared to support it It led nowhere but stood erect like a sentry on duty.
"It is the same," Gutreth said, turning to John. "It bears the same numbers. What is it doing here?" He stared hard at John. "You drew it here by the power of the Changer, didn't you?" he said, his voice heavy with fear.
John said nothing. He had no idea what the door was, but he could tell that Gutreth was worried. "You came through that door—came through it from nowhere. What lies beyond it?"
