by John White
But no sooner had the ray left the creature's finger than the bolt of blue light passed through it and it disappeared. With it went everything of the Mystery of Abomination. Only the clear light of the moon remained.
No one moved. No one that is, except for Rathson and Gold-son, and they for only a brief second. They were too close to each other for anyone to see clearly what happened. There was a swift movement, then a grunt, then the soft thud of a body falling on the turf. And as they watched helplessly, Goldson, with a yell of delight, tore the gold chain from around Rath-son's neck. The rest of them remained transfixed.
Then with a laugh Goldson flung his sword aside and ran to the cliff top shouting, "Gold, I will have gold! I go to join the Mystery. Now I shall live forever and hoard more gold than any being who has ever lived."
He leaped over the cliff and vanished from sight In the stillness that followed, a voice from the skies cried, "Henceforth shall his name be Goldcoffln! He will live many ages in a castle beneath the Northern Mountains, surrounded by a lake of death, surfeited with the dead things he has chosen."
At first they moved slowly as though they were waking from a dream. But soon Mab, John, Bjornsluv and several of the Matmon servants were clambering down the ladder. Even before they reached the bottom, the old king had staggered to his feet and was stumbling across to where his grandson's body lay. Rathson was dead Bjorn and Bjornsluv wailed softly over his body while the rest of the company watched in silence. Gently the seer took John by the arm and urged him to go to bed.
22
* * *
Folly's Comfort
They buried Rathson the next day inside the castle walls. The Matmon king and queen bore themselves with dignity, weeping silently, but holding their heads high. John's feelings were confused. One part of him was overwhelmed with grief at the thought of what Bjorn and Bjornsluv were suffering. But another part of him was anxious and guilty.
Why had he not acted sooner? Why had he not spoken to the old king as soon as the council meeting was over? He had clearly seen the hostility of Goldson (or of Goldcoffin, as everyone was now calling him) toward Rathson. Why had he not spoken up as soon as he had seen the glittering chain of gold on Rathson's neck? Was it his fault that Rathson had died?
He talked the matter over with Mab after the funeral, but their conversation left him unsatisfied. Mab felt that it was silly for John to blame himself. Mab was more concerned about the royal succession than about Bjorn's grief. "He has great grandsons to carry on his line," Mab told John. "Rathson has three children of his own. Many of the Matmon people still live in the Northern hills because of the danger here. Rathson would not allow his wife to come to the island." But John could not forget the glow in the king's eyes as he had spoken of Rathson the night before nor the soft moaning in the moonlight.
"Couldn't you bring him to life again—like you did with Aguila?" John asked.
The seer shook his head. "I don't often do things like that And when I do, I know beforehand that it will happen. I see it. That's why I'm called a seer. In the case of Rathson, I saw nothing."
John even approached Bjorn, his lip quivering and his voice shaking as he said the only things he could think of. "I'm so sorry. It was my fault. I should have told you sooner."
Wordlessly Bjorn had gathered him into his strong arms and held him. "No," he said at length. "I should have listened to you as soon as you told me. Something in my heart said that you were a messenger from Mi-ka-ya, but I did not want to listen. The fault is mine, and I have paid dearly for my stubbornness."
John marveled at the softness of the Matmon's beard as he clutched John tightly, breathing heavily. He found himself weeping. But he was thinking not of Bjorn nor of Rathson. Or if he was thinking of them, he was thinking more of Grandma Wilson and of a funeral two years before that he never had a chance to attend.
When Bjorn eventually let him go, John made his way to a lonely spot on the castle wall, sat in a corner of the parapet overlooking the lake and wept, quietly at first, but in the end brokenly. He wept until he was exhausted, letting his sobbing subside slowly and his thoughts wander wherever they wanted to. His own world and his own past were with him again. He thought of Salford Grammar School, of his friends there and of his former foes on Ellor Street. He thought of the Smiths and of Nicholas Slapfoot. But most of all he thought of Grandma Wilson and of nestling against her long black skirt as he snuggled on the floor night by night in front of their fireplace where she read "The Phoenix and the Carpet" to him.
Slowly his sobs subsided and his breathing grew quieter, punctuated only by an occasional sigh. It was late in the afternoon. He had not eaten all day, but he felt no hunger. He pulled the chain over his head and opened the gold locket to examine its contents for the thousandth time, staring at the Great War soldier. (He called World War I the Great War because, of course, he knew nothing of World War II.) Then he felt a soft nose touching his knees.
"I would not intrude on your grief, King John—"
"Not King john, Folly, just John."
"I would not intrude on your grief, Just John—"
John snickered. He was about to say, "Not just John, just John," but Folly was already launched on a speech.
"Weeping may endure for a night, but better is a dry morsel with quiet... at least I think that's how it goes. I am foolish to suppose that I can offer comfort to one so infinitely wiser than myself, but it is my understanding, Just John, that you blame yourself for the tragedy that befell our company last night when all the time it is I who am to blame."
John was startled enough to forget his private sorrows.
"You? How could you be to blame?"
"The winds, Just John, the winds. What a stupid idea they were! How could winds blow evil away? Had I but kept my folly to myself (fine speech is not becoming to a fool—better to meet a she-bear robbed of her cubs than a fool in his folly) the Abomination might never have come. What a fool I am! What a fool, what a fool!" His face took on a woebegone expression. He placed his head on the ground and moaned.
Then John, who a few moments before felt he had no feelings left inside him, smiled. "Yes, Folly, you are—for so am I. And you're the nicest fool I ever met"
He hopped down from his seat, stroked the despondent donkey's neck and continued to laugh in soft, unsteady little spurts."I've never met anyone like you, Folly!" Folly lifted his head and brayed a little uncertainly.
"It is said that weeping may endure for a night but that's where flies go in the winter time... or am I repeating myself?"
John laughed heartily, and warmth began to kindle inside him. Folly studied him carefully for a few moments. Then he said, "You have dropped your chain, Just John. You have also dropped two gold ornaments that were attached to it."
At first John did not hear what the donkey said. His thoughts had wandered again. But eventually, after Folly had repeated himself several times, the words penetrated.
"Oh, yes. Sorry, Folly. I was thinking of something else. It's my ring and my locket. Let me show you."
John picked his treasures from the stone pavement on the castle wall and opened the locket, which Folly studied carefully. He displayed a great deal of interest in the photograph. "It appears to be the head of an adult male of your own species," he said eventually.
"Yes. It's a soldier. A soldier from the Great War. It might be a picture of my father."
"But he is small. Very small. In fact one could say that he is tiny. The head, now, is infinitely smaller than your own. I did not know that your species could be as small as that You yourself are much larger. Could so tiny a father produce a son of your size?"
"But it's just a photograph," John said. "It's not a real human being."
"Well, I didn't want to sound offensive, especially if the father in question should be your father, but I did, yes, I must confess I did think he was rather .. . er, flat and ... er, strangely colored and thin."
John smiled. "Folly, a picture is only a p
icture. It's not a real person. It's just to help you think what the person is really like."
Folly nodded. "The Matmon paint life-size pictures with all the proper colors. They too are flat, but I think I understand. Oh, my feeble brain! I am supposed to look at your father's picture and with my brain, which is a very small brain, I must make the picture larger and fatter and more colored. Then what I see is the real human."
"Yes, that's the idea."
Folly nodded solemnly. "He who walks with wise men becomes wise. Wisdom will yet become an adornment round my neck" He looked at the picture again. "But why did they cut his body in two? Surely they did not have to kill him to make the picture?"
John stared.
"The picture is of the top half of a male. What did they do with the bottom half?"
The remark touched something in John that made him laugh helplessly. At length he said, "The bottom half was still there. Nobody took it away. They just didn't take a picture of the rest of him. Oh Folly, how can I ever explain it to you?"
But Folly was frowning in deep concentration. "So I enlarge the male father. I fatten it in my mind. I color it, and I invent all the parts I cannot see. Oh, how little I know! Wisdom has yet to become an adornment round my neck Thank you, Just John, for explaining these mysteries to me."
John placed his arm round Folly's neck He began to tell him about life in Pendleton, about Salford Grammar School. He told him things he had told no one else, not even Mab, about the ring and the locket and the strange mystery of the parents he had never met, of his longing to find his father and of his terrible thirteenth birthday. Over two years of dammed-up pain were slowly released.
The explanation was long and complicated, for it required involved discussions of things that Folly could not understand at first But John felt relief in talking, and the explanations cemented a relationship between them. Folly wanted to under-stand, and he seemed to have the same comforting effect on John that the Changer himself had had.
"It was my thirteenth birthday," John explained slowly. "My granma was going to tell me all about the ring and the locket. But I never found out. She was dead when I got home."
"How terrible, Just John. How very terrible! What did you do?"
"Well, I didn't really think she was dead. At least I did and I didn't. But I called the Smiths (they're the folk who lived next door) and they helped me."
"But they were going to put you into this orn-a-fage ..."
"Orphanage."
"Yes, that's what I said, wasn't it?"
"But I had to get away ..."
"And to think that in the midst of your personal troubles you thought about us and came to help us!"
"Well, it wasn't exactly like that..."
"Perhaps not, but we will never cease to be grateful. How kind you are! How very generous and how kind!"
John knew he was not particularly kind or generous. It had been the Changer who had rescued him and had redirected his course. But how could he explain that to Folly? The afternoon sun was descending and he felt sleepy. He was leaning against Folly, feeling strangely at peace. He closed his eyes. Slowly his head slipped forward and his breathing deepened.
The sun set and darkness fell, but Folly never moved. Nor did John feel the thin and wasted arms of the seer who struggled to lift him when he eventually found them both. Mab carried him laboriously to John's chamber, there to tuck him gently between soft sheets.
23
* * *
Journey into
Pain
King Bjorn's sorrow was turned into rage against his former master, the Mystery of Abominadon. And his rage resulted in an outpouring of energy. Within two days he was feverishly at work on his scheme for the iron portcullis guarding the entrance to the tunnel. The remaining work on it was quickly finished. And immediately he got Vixenia to use a proseo cornai stone to create a spell so the portcullis would only be raised when certain magical words were used.
Mab was indignant. He had made it plain that he would have no part in "misusing pross stones." And it was not by any means clear whether the "magic" had worked. The portcullis was certainly locked in place. It was in fact impossible to raise. The magic words they had chosen were a total failure. Mab watched their futile efforts to raise it. Though he said nothing, his view was well known. This may be why Bjorn made it clear that in his view they had achieved at least a partial success. "After all," he said, "we want to protect the tower. And with the iron of the portcullis rigidly in place we shall."
Bjorn called a meeting. Vixenia, Mab, Poison and John were the only ones who came. Bjornsluv was still too full of grief to attend. No one knew who invited Poison. King Bjorn was surprised to see her, but said nothing, supposing that Mab or John had brought her. He had called the meeting, Bjorn explained, to consider what the Mystery might do next and what steps could be taken to protect themselves and the Regents.
Mab's face was weary. He had never really recovered from his illness, and though he still held himself erect, his movements were slow and labored. "Let us be clear about one thing," he said slowly. "We are here to welcome the Regents, not to protect them. What happens in the tower is the Changer's bus-iness, not ours."
"You have confidence surely in the strength of the portcullis," King Bjorn observed.
"My confidence is in the wisdom of the Changer. We have yet to see whether the portcullis affords any protection. You will remember that the winds did not protect us. Besides, they do not blow constandy anyway.
"But we must be concerned about our own danger. It is all too real. We can leave the tower to the Changer. But we must prepare to defend ourselves from attacks. They are certain to come."
John fully expected Bjorn to defend the portcullis, but to his surprise the king's only comment was, "And what form might those attacks take?"
"I only wish I knew," Mab said. 'The Mystery is malicious and unforgiving. It will attack us out of spite for destroying his tower. I am surprised that it has so far done so little. I know that to your majesty it has brought great pain and suffering— a suffering in which we share. But we must not suppose that it has finished."
Bjorn's face was dark "Who will rid us of this great evil?"
"The Sword Bearer will—at least for a period of time. Once the Goblin Prince is dead, the Mystery's power will wane for several hundred years. The Qadar and their riders wll be banished to the caves of Aphela. The Goblins will not be seen for centuries and likewise the power of the sorcerers. But in the meantime our enemy is both unbelievably powerful and extremely spiteful. I can think of but one way in which we can anticipate its moves."
"And what is that?" Vixenia asked, her brush wrapped daintily around her tiny feet.
"The goblins always seem to know what the Mystery intends. For some reason, they and their prince play a key role in all that is happening. The goblins must meet somewhere in the swamp the night before the full moon. It might be possible— I do not say easy—but it might be possible to learn something by attending their meeting."
Bjorn shook his head. "It would be extremely dangerous even if it were possible. But how could it be done? How in that treacherous maze could you even find the goblins?"
"My staff may help. But the Sword Bearer has an infallible way. He simply walks into his own pain." Mab reminded them about the meaning of the pain in John's shoulder.
John began to feel his heart beat What adventure awaited him now? He did not like the thought of going in whatever direction increased his pain in order to find the goblins. Yet interest quickened as everyone realized the possibilities John's painful shoulder had.
"Does it trouble you at all now?" Vixenia asked.
John shook his head. "I hardly ever feel it. Only when I'm near the Goblin Prince ... or the Lord Lunacy. Perhaps just faintly now and then. I can feel it a tiny bit now, but it's nothing.
Mab looked at him keenly, glanced at Poison, but said nothing.
King Bjorn cleared his throat "Suppose you find your way to thi
s assembly of goblins with their prince. How do you propose to be present without being detected?"
"Again, the Sword Bearer has an answer. Show them the Mashal Stone, John."
For two years John had carried the Mashal Stone in an inner pocket without ever using it. His restraint had a reason. Soon after their arrival on the island John had, in fun, again made himself invisible to Mab. But Mab had been indignant and had urged him to secrecy and to use the stone only for a valid reason. "Our enemies must never find out that we have recovered the stone," he said.
There were expressions of admiration at the beauty of the stone which all of them were invited to handle. "Now," Mab said to John as he dangled the stone from its chain, "sit close to me with your arm against mine."
John did so. Mab whipped the thin chain around both their arms. Instantly they disappeared. Poison hissed while Bjorn and Vixenia both leaped to their feet "Powers of Mi-ka-ya!" the Matmon cried. "Where have they gone?"
But John was preoccupied with his own astonishment He was staring at Poison, or at least at the place where Poison had been. What he saw was Tabby, Bjornsluv's missing cat, with an impish goblin seated on her back
Quickly Mab unwound the chain from around their arms and handed the pendant back to John, making them instandy visible. Mab had seen what John had. Ignoring cries of astonishment from Bjorn and Vixenia, he raised his staff above his head, looked hard at Poison and cried, "Avaunt, evil thing! Begone in the name of the Changer!"
"The cat is shrinking" Vixenia breathed.
It was true. Not only so, but its silhouette remained painted on the air like a ghosdy thing, as the cat inside the silhouette grew smaller. Its color was changing too. Within seconds there were more cries of astonishment as the normal-sized Tabby appeared inside what looked like the ghost of Poison. Then slowly the ghostly creature turned and stalked across the floor and through the wall while Tabby rose and rubbed herself affectionately against Bjorn's legs.
