Hey! These strokes feel good. Sparks fly when the blades cross.
–Way to go, Dingwall! cries Norbert.
I seem to do better when I don't think! The hilt is humming in my hands, as though the sword itself is happy to be fighting. Maybe I'd better leave the fighting to my sword. It knows more than I do. I loosen my fingers.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a knight in front of Barnaby. It's Sir Mise – I can tell by his twitching nose. He stabs at Barnaby repeatedly. The horse takes a bite every time the carrot comes near his mouth, so the blade gets shorter and shorter. His last bite almost takes off Sir Mise's finger. The knight hurries back to the table to get another carrot.
And now here's the Dey again. He's still confident. He figures to end the fight now by raining down a whole storm of blows on me. For a minute or two his sword is everywhere, falling like rain, swirling like wind, stabbing like love. My own sword leaps to meet his, flashing faster than I can think, turning the blows aside, blocking high and low, catching the tip and blade of his sword on my own blade and hilt. Sparks fly upwards in a steady shower.
I try a combination of my own now. I don't think about it. I just throw a high feint out, then follow with a low stab, then a backhanded sweep cut. The Dey turns to fly. The wind whips his cloak around so that it looks like a long black tail.
Chasing after him, I realize that I can fly as well as he can. Maybe better. I race after him, but he's a tricky fighter, swinging before I expect him to. I stop on a dime, and slash down without thinking.
And it gets him right on the top of his helmet. There's a crackling booming sound. The helmet must be made of the same not-quite-metal as the landing area back in Betunkaville. The Dey swears. He's got a bit of a garbage mouth.
“A lucky shot,” he says, gathering himself back on guard. “But not serious. You're a damned lousy swordsman, Dingwall. Who was your teacher?”
I shake my hair out of my eyes. “Last year it was Miss Scathely,” I say. “Next year, it's Mr. Reynolds. He's an old guy with a cardigan, and he's kind of scary.”
The Dey of Ich
Fell in a dich
And got himself all wet!
His mom was a wich
Who scratched an ich
That came from their household pet.
Norbert, of course. He has to shout to make himself heard over the wind. He's rocking Barnaby towards the knights. The rocking horse is looking tired – probably full of carrots, poor guy.
“Shut up!” calls the Dey angrily. But Norbert doesn't care at all. He never does care. He goes right on.
The Dey of Ich
Took off every stich
And went outside to play.
The girls of Ich
Pushed him, back in the dich.
O, what a pitiful Dey!
“I am not!” he cries. “I am not pitiful!” He leaves me, swooping down on Norbert, with his sword raised. Norbert lets out a squeak, and flies off. The Dey chases him, and I chase after them both.
Norbert leads us all around the picnic table, high in the air, and then out over the lake. The Dey follows closely. His sword arm is steady. So's his other one, which he holds away from his body for balance in the wind. And his other hand is keeping the heavy cloak out of his way.
The Dey can't catch Norbert, but I can catch the Dey. I try to knock the sword out of his hand. I miss, but I nick the outside of his wrist. He cries out in pain, and claps a hand over the cut.
Wait a minute – how many hands is that?
Let's see. The sword hand, the balance hand, the cloak hand, the wound hand. More hands than he needs.
They're not all his hands!
He's got minions hiding under the cloak. They're the ones flying – not him.
“Help!” he cries in a mean Dey voice. “Help, now, dammit!”
And here come more hands. A cloud of them, like butterflies, plucking at his arms and legs, gathering him up and carrying him higher, faster than I can go. They seem to come from below us, but I can't work out how or where.
Flying back to the picnic area, I notice steps going down into the water. I wonder if the lake is really an old abandoned reservoir….
The Dey is flying back at me, faster, grimmer, more determined than ever. “Prepare to meet your doom!” he calls. But there's no thunder on the words this time.
I squeeze my toes and shoot in the air. The Dey flies under me. He stops, turns round, and comes racing back at full minion power. I dodge. He circles around. I turn tail and fly. Our battle becomes an aerial dogfight. I swing hard left. He follows.
I'm getting an idea. He may be faster, but he doesn't maneuver as well. I angle my feet so that I'm flying pigeon-toed, my left foot pointing to the right, and my right foot to the left. I wiggle the toes on one foot at a time, making a series of quick zigzags. Left, right, left. The zigs work better than the zags because I'm turning with the wind, but the idea is to make a lot of quick turns. The Dey tries to follow, but he can't keep up. After the fourth or fifth zag, he's far enough behind for a surprise. I raise my left foot, squeezing those toes, then follow with my right. The slippers do their job, and I flip in the air, turning a somersault and ending up immediately above him. I drop down to sit on his shoulders. Now the minions have to carry both of us. Even one of us is pretty big. Together we're too heavy. I can feel us sinking towards the picnic table.
(I have a sudden memory flash: my friend Victor giving me a piggyback down the back stairs. He couldn't hold us both up, and fell down the last few steps. We both ended up on the ground, with scraped knees and elbows. His mom gave us a lecture, and Popsicles.)
The Dey tries to wrestle me off his shoulders, but I lock my knees around his neck and squeeze tight. I can feel the hired hands plucking at me, but they can't carry me away. I want to end this fight. I throw my weight so that we topple forward. With my legs still locked around the Dey's neck and my feet pointed down, I wiggle my toes as hard as I can. I'm flying us towards the picnic table.
Down we plummet. It's hard to estimate height over a flat plain, but I'd say we were as high as a not-very-tall tree. Now we're falling out of that tree. In the second last second before impact, I release my legs and kick myself free of the Dey. I squeeze the toes on one foot, and flip myself right side up, so that I'm hovering just over the picnic table. The Dey can't stop himself. He falls helmet-first into a bowl of rice pudding. (I love rice pudding.) The bowl breaks in half, the pudding spreads over the table, and the Dey lies, stunned and senseless, with white matter oozing all around his black helmet.
And now the rain begins. I feel the first drops on my face. The hired hands disappear.
The fight is over. I've won.
–Hey, Dingwall! Good for you!
Norbert is patting me on the back. His antennae stand straight up. His eyes are wide open.
–Legend says his doom will fall, When Jupiter's champion comes from Earth, he quotes. That would be now.
I float down, feeling pretty good. I've never won a fight before.
The Dey's sword has fallen, point first, into a roast turkey carcass. The hilt and the top part of the blade emerge from the middle of the breastbone. I jump up on the table and grab the handle of the Dey's sword. With difficulty, because it is stuck right through the turkey into the wood of the table, I pull the blade forth.
I don't know what I look like, standing there on the picnic table with the lightning flashing around me and two swords in my hands. Evidently pretty darn heroic because the knights get down on one knee – one knee each, I mean – and look up at me.
“The Dey is done,” they cry. The wind whips the surface of the pond. “Hail, the new Dey!” they cry. “Hail, Dingwall! We are now your servants! Command us, what?”
I stare down at them. Do they mean it? I guess so. I am Jupiter's champion. “Uh … throw away your weapons,” I say. They toss their carrots away.
Speaking of weapons, the Dey's sword feels as comfortable in my hand as my own. It's the same we
ight too, and the same balance. If I cleaned the rust off mine, they'd look practically identical. At the end of the grip there's a jewel, almost as big as an egg, to stop the sword hand from sliding off. Same function as the roll of tape at the end of the hockey stick, but nicer looking. My jewel is bright red; the Dey's, jet black. That's the only difference between the two weapons. I put them down, mightily puzzled. Who is this guy?
I ask the knights to move him onto the grass. They leap to obey, big strong guys with mustaches hurrying to do what I ask. “His helmet is broken,” says Sir Mount.
“Take it off him,” I say.
“No one has ever seen him without his helmet,” says Sir Mise.
Barnaby rocks over to me. He looks worn-out. His coat is shiny with sweat. I stroke him between the ears and tell him how well he fought. He looks up at me and nuzzles my leg. His eyes are big and round and trusting. Their expression fills me with sadness.
“I'm sorry,” I say to him. “I'm sorry.”
I hear gasps of astonishment from over where the knights are crowded.
–Come here, Dingwall, Norbert calls urgently.
The Dey is lying on the ground, with his helmet pushed up to his forehead. The knights stare down at him, then up at me, then down at him again. Sir Prise's eyebrows are climbing up his forehead like monkeys going up a palm tree.
“What is it?” I ask, moving over with a bit of a shudder. I'm thinking of the Phantom of the Opera. “Is he hideous? Is he … deformed?”
–That's a matter of opinion, says Norbert.
The Dey's face is youngish, roundish, freckled. The nose is small, the eyes are wide set and kind of squinky. Not a handsome face, perhaps, but pleasant enough. No reason to hide it behind a black helmet. And yet, staring down at it, I am filled with a shivery creepy feeling. You see, I recognize the face. I know it well. I see it every day in the mirror when I wash it.
Yes, that's right. The Black Dey of Ich looks like me.
Almost exactly like me. He's even got the same pimple on his cheek, and I didn't begin to feel mine until yesterday.
There are a couple of differences between us. When Sir Mount eases the helmet all the way off, there's black hair underneath. My hair is straight and wispy, like the Dey's, and needs a trim, like his, but it's red.
And he's got a tattoo. At the corner of one eye is a black teardrop. Actually, I have to admit, it looks pretty cool.
His hair is as black, like the jewel on the hilt of his sword. My hair is red, like my jewel.
What is going on?
I feel light-headed. I stagger backwards. Sir Mount catches me. “Oh, Dey,” he says. The twins, Prise and Mise, echo him in turn.
“Oh, Dey!”
“Oh, Dey!”
“Oh,” I say.
The rain falls gently. I notice some greasy turkey stuffing stuck to the end of the Dey's sword.
“What's going on?” I ask Norbert. I'm knee-deep in the pool, swishing the Dey's sword through the water to clean it. Norbert is standing on the bank behind me. “What on jupiter is going on? You saw, didn't you? The Dey looks like me.”
–Hideous, says Norbert. Deformed.
“Shut up. Help me here. What's happening? How can he look like me? You remember what we saw at Mad Guy's laboratory? The pictures, the eyewitnesses. This Dey oppresses the whole planet. He carries citizens off. He carried Nerissa off. He's evil. And yet he's me. How does that work?”
–I don't know. Except that he isn't you.
I can't seem to clean the stuffing and grease off the sword. I reach into the pool to scrub the blade with my hand.
“I travel across the galaxy to meet the guy. I go through bogs, I fall off waterfalls, I climb mountains. I beat him in an epic duel, flying through the air, swords in our hands, and … it's me all along. I should feel great, but I feel weird.”
I can't help thinking that the only fight I've ever won has been against someone who looks exactly like me. Some victory.
“Don't you see, Norbert? He's a kind of negative version of me. He's got the black hair and this black sword to prove it. And the tattoo.”
I still can't get the sword clean.
–If he's a negative version of you, wouldn't he be dark-skinned? You're not dark-skinned.
“Huh?”
–And female? And old? And toothless? Maybe carrying a guitar. These are all things you aren't.
“Huh?”
–And smart?
“Shut up. Are you really saying that a negative version of myself would be an old black lady?”
– I'm saying identity is tricky. The Dey looks like you, Dingwall. That doesn't mean he has to be you. Doesn't mean that you have to be him.
“What did you mean with the guitar?”
–Nothing much. Sometimes a guitar is just a guitar.
I can't feel the water – not the wetness of it, anyway. It's a fluid, but it's dry. Weird. I'm up to my knees in liquid air. That's why I can't clean off the sword. I'm just spreading the grease around. The rest of me is getting wet from the rain. When I step out of the pool, my hands, and my pants below the knee – where I was standing in the water – are the only dry parts of me.
I remember the Dey emerging from the water, dry. My heart is beating quickly. I grab Norbert and pull him into the air with me.
“Look!” I say, pointing down.
We hover in silence over the pool. There are the steps again, near where I was standing.
Which way are they leading? It seems like they're going down, but if you hold your head a different way and look sideways, you can see that the stairs could be leading up, too. It's a what-do-you-call-it, a trick. You know what I mean. Like the pictures you stare at, where the wineglass becomes two people kissing, or the clown face becomes an eagle carrying a baby away. The stairs lead down, the stairs lead up.
And I know what they lead to. “The Schlosh!” I cry, swallowing my tongue.
–What?
I take a breath and try again.
“The Lost Schloss is hidden in the pool,” I say.
I can see the whole thing in my mind's eye. It's a clear and mystic vision. I can picture the castle, built upside down, with the turrets and banners away at the bottom of the pool, and the stone steps leading up – leading down – from the surface here all the way to the topmost – bottommost – tower door. A castle invisible from anywhere on the ground. A castle hidden in plain sight.
–Great steaming mugs of cocoa! cries Norbert. It is! It is!
The storm has swung around, and is upon us again. Sheet lightning flickers across the sky overhead, thanks to the buildup of positive charges shooting from cloud to cloud, making the rains fall and beginning the water cycle all over again. (I think that's what Mr. Buchal said.)
“The prophecy is fulfilled,” I say. “I've beaten the Dey and found the Lost Schloss!”
It's a dramatic moment: the end of my quest. I've done what I was brought to do. I am Jupiter's champion.
So why isn't there more cheering? When you win the championship, you lift up your trophy and drink champagne and thank your fans. Where's my trophy? Where are the queen and her court, and Mad Guy and Butterbean, and The Jim and The Dale, and Wilma and Barbara and the rest of the gang down there in the Bogway? Why do I still feel that there's more to be done?
Nerissa, of course.
It's a familiar situation, the captive princess, but that's what we have. I'm not here for the planet, or some old prophecy. I'm here for Norbert. He brought me here to free his princess, and I won't be finished on Jupiter until I've helped my friend.
I fly down to the picnic table. It's raining, but the knights don't mind. They're eating hungrily. Well, they've had a big fight. The rain washes the stuffing off the Dey's sword. I lay it down reverently.
“Ho, knights!” I call in my loudest voice. “What can you tell me about the castle hidden in the pool?”
They scramble to their feet.
“The pool is a magical place,” says Sir Mount,
wiping his mouth. “The waters do not quench your thirst. The Black Dey enters and leaves the pool, and never gets wet.”
“Have you been under the water?” I ask.
“Oh, no, sir,” says Sir Mount. “We've never been invited, what?”
“Besides,” says Sir Vey, in a whisper, “we'd be scared to go in. Not with the Scourge living down there.”
On the word, a deep note sounds from below the ground. It's like one of those bass pedal notes on a church organ – the kind you feel in the soles of your feet. I wonder if it's a monster, like the green one at Bogway Park Lodge. It sounds a lot like a … well, like a fart, but –hoo boy – I would not like to be standing behind whoever it was that let it out.
I remember what Mad Guy told us, back in Betunkaville. “Isn't the Black Dey just another name for the Scourge?” I say. “I thought they were the same thing.”
“No, no,” say all the knights together.
And now things get very complicated.
Barnaby whinnies. I can hear the alarm in his voice. I turn and gasp. The Dey is awake, and flying right at me!
I just have time to get my sword out of my belt and in the on-guard position, when I realize that he's not carrying his weapon. His arms hang limp at his sides. He's not even awake – his eyes are closed and his head lolls to one side. Hands are clutching his cloak, shoulders, hair. The minions are back. They carry the Dey past me, pause in midair, then drop into the pool with hardly a splash. I bend over the edge of the bank. The water is so clear that it's easy to follow them as they run the Dey up the staircase.
That's what it looks like. I know they're moving down into the water, but it looks for all the world like they're going up. It may be an optical illusion – that's what I wanted to say minute ago – but it's really convincing.
–Dingwall! cries Norbert, from behind me.
I whirl around in the nick of time – actually, just past the nick, but I don't realize that right away. Two more minions are behind me, holding on to the handle of the Dey's sword. The blade is slicing through the air on its way to my neck. I duck and throw out my arm.
The Boy from Earth Page 10
