An explosion of purple thundered over the horizon; a bubble of purple light, like an eruption that refused to fade after detonation. If Kip squinted, he could see some busy activity in its shape. The purple light was etched with movement, like tiny lightning strikes.
The sound of it caught up with them. It rolled over the gray landscape in waves.
Vorax cupped his hands together and then moved them outward. A golden sphere filled in the space. It had some inner-workings that were in constant motion, moving parts that were calculating something. It reminded Kip of a clock but not one made by men. He thought he could hear the dim sound of bells in its shape, bells waiting to ring out.
The creature gave it a push and it flew towards the horizon with tremendous speed, racing to join the purple light that seemed impossibly far away.
“What…what was that?” Kip asked.
“Something that will keep the time for us. Meet me there, on that purple shore, after the striking of the tenth bell. Bring me what I’ve asked for, what we both want, a cure for death.”
Kip still protested.
“I…I don’t have the skill, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“This realm will be an education. Perhaps you will pass, perhaps you will fail, but you have ten bells to do either.” He stretched out his arm.
“Explore this Pale World and find what you seek.”
There was nothing left to say to the creature. Kip looked down at Shadow, hoping for some input, but his friend stared back in silence.
“We’re not without some civility here. A place will been made for you.”
Vorax picked up a bell from the table, a thorny thing made of obsidian. Again Kip felt the echo of the real world. Hours ago, Blackmoor had reached for his own bell and set this doom in motion.
The creature rang the bell but it made no sound that Kip could hear. The gray clouds parted.
There was movement from every direction as small black forms slinked from the shadows, some walking straight out of the rocks, others pattering along in groups, coming over a hill or across a valley.
It was an army of Shadows.
Hundreds of searching eyes surrounded the table. Kip’s Shadow let out a low whine and pulled himself closer to Kip, gripping his leg.
They were Shadows but not his Shadow. Their differences were slight, but they were there; eyes that were a hair farther apart, a wider mouth, a longer tail. They kept coming until a sea of them surged around the table, its waves rolling off into the distance.
There were familiar sounds; a soft purring, the clicking of teeth. They spoke in a hushed language that Kip couldn’t understand.
These Shadows had one difference that eclipsed all the others. Instead of soft blue eyes, theirs were an angry purple.
Vorax stood.
He opened his mouth to speak, but another spasm struck him, shredding his form and then snapping it back together. Something roiled inside him and he swayed on his feet. There was an explosion and he split down the middle, shadow-flesh stripping back layer after layer. His center carved out, revealing his prisoner.
Lord Blackmoor stood like a mummy in a sarcophagus before tumbling forward. He collapsed into the dirt. His body smoked, covered with a thin film that quickly evaporated.
The old man looked even older, his skin grayed and etched with deep wrinkles. Bony fingers pulled in the dirt as if remembering how to grasp.
My god, Kip thought. He’s still alive.
The strip of white hair on his brow had spread to cover the rest of his skull. With some effort he raised his head, looking up at Kip with watery eyes.
“I found your secret,” he said, before falling unconscious.
11
“You…you left him alive?”
“I’m not a monster, Master Kip. You’ll find I only take what I need. Besides, two heads are better than one. Lord Blackmoor can lend his own expertise to our little project. Perhaps he can find things you cannot.”
The Shadows gathered around the old man. Raising his weakened body over their heads, they began to retreat.
Kip wondered where they would take him.
And me, where do I go in this new world? he thought.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Vorax spoke.
“Rest here for the night,” he said, gesturing to something behind Kip.
He turned to see a house constructed behind him. Shadows ran over its surface, building as they went. Wood knitted together. Stone pushed from the ground.
Every detail was in place and it was all familiar.
A single black shingle that stood out in a sea of green ones, like a tiny entrance to a cave. The iron latches that held the shutters in place, their twisted shapes catching the light. There was a rod-iron fence with a metal owl fused to the top of it, perched and waiting with watchful eyes. A stone path zig-zagged to the front door.
It was Enos’s house.
A cottage just outside London. It sat between the city and the greater wild of the country, a doorway to a bigger world. Now it sat alone, a single marker in an empty world.
The house was a lost memory. He looked at the position of every chair and cushion, the baubles on every shelf. How could they seem so right, but also so alien?
The shade of Enos followed him, walking with silent steps.
Bookshelves lined every available wall. In-between the books were the small worlds he’d created, the pocket-sized armadas ready to brave the sea. There were easily two-dozen ships in bottles. Kip found them spread throughout the house like small jewels, nestled between Brontë and Dickens. He could imagine their sails flapping, the crew scrambling on deck, following barked orders. When he peered through the rippled glass he could practically see it, a tiny world unfolding just for him. He could smell the minute portions of brandy that an obedient crew were rewarded with, the frying of lard and bacon, the smell of gunpowder and smoke, the feel of canvas and oakum.
Enos would give a story to each one, weaving a tale for Kip. In this one, Lord Nelson was a hero; in that one Napoleon was dastardly.
Not all were about war. Some stories struck out at new horizons, their tiny passengers longing for escape, longing to find some tropical wind that would blow them to someplace safe and warm.
Captain Currant in a first-rate three-masted cruiser looked for treasure.
Princess Katoomba wanted safe harbor after stealing the crown of Peter the Great.
Kip and Enos sailing to find the Floating Library of Antilla.
The fire in the hearth cast its glow, a setting sun reflected in each bottle.
He turned to find Enos, to see if he was as alive as his models. The gray shade lingered in the doorway, his eyes drawn to the fire and nothing else.
Kip walked up the stairs, testing the weight of every step beneath him. His feet led the way without any thought, pulling him left then right, until he entered the bedroom.
There was a book on the nightstand. Its spine cracked as he opened it and began to flip through the pages. All empty. One blank parchment after another flipped by his face. He was sure he’d been reading a book with words the last time he’d been here, but he couldn’t remember now. What had the words been? What did it matter?
As the light dimmed outside, Kip felt the weight of his exhaustion. He tried to remember all the events that had come before this moment, but found it took an intense concentration. Snatches of memory rose to the surface.
Lord Blackmoor’s smiling face that tipped towards a sneer.
The cold of space as it gripped Fairfield and Britten.
The attack on Alchemy House.
And Vorax.
Why was he forgetting?
Questions could wait. Kip pulled back the covers of Enos’s bed and began to undress, letting his clothes fall to the floor in a heap. He looked down at his body and was startled by how gaunt he looked, too much bone where there should have been fat. Another skeleton for the underworld.
The Pale World.
He sat on the mattress and tho
ught his body would sink through it, wrapped in comfort, and continue to fall, not caring how far down it went.
Kip looked up at Enos, who was standing stock-still by the door to the room.
“Join me,” Kip said. “Let’s sleep.”
Enos made no move.
“Don’t you want to? It could be…like it was.”
Some unseen thing caught Enos’s attention and he looked at the blank wall to his right, staring like a cat at some mystery that humans couldn’t see. Kip rose from bed and crossed the room. He approached Enos timidly until he was standing in front of him.
“Enos,” he whispered, trying to get his attention.
He turned his head back and caught Kip’s eye for the briefest moment. Then looked ahead, straight through him.
He doesn’t see me.
Kip rested his arms on Enos’s shoulders. There was barely any form to him, just the small push-back on Kip’s palms. Any more pressure and he thought his hands would pass straight through him.
“I’ve missed you, Enos. I’ve missed you so much. I didn’t think I could miss anything so much. I thought there would always be laughter, that it would fill the house, bounce off of every wall. Did you miss me?”
Enos’s eyes, robbed of color, focused on some horizon Kip couldn’t see. It was like looking into a nearly frozen pond, a barrier forming over the world below. And just as cold.
Kip wrapped his arms around the shade, only the suggestion of body there to rest on. He found the crook of Enos’s neck and buried his face there.
No warmth. No scent.
“Didn’t you miss me, Enos?”
Kip barely slept that night. This version of Enos’s house was a tomb, just a place for dead things to decay. He tossed and turned, occasionally spying a bolt of silent lightning out the window, striking somewhere out in the darkness. The flash of light lit the room and he turned to see Enos, still standing by the door; immovable.
A deafening sound cracked the air.
Kip nearly screamed. He rolled from the bed naked, his hands up to protect himself from any assault. The peeling gong of a bell thundered over the horizon, coming in waves that mixed into an echoing loop. Beneath the sound was the familiar beating of drums, each heavy beat played by some angry god.
Kip tripped into his clothes, stepping into his pants as he hopped across the floor. He turned to look for Enos but there was no sign of him.
The sky dimmed outside as a vast star-scape opened up. It vibrated with the chiming clock, the pinprick stars blazing with each gong. The depths of space stretched out in all directions; heavenly bodies whirled and smashed together in slow motion. This was no map Kip had ever seen, alien constellations weaving their patterns above.
Pale gray light absorbed the star-scape and then spread out, covering the horizon. It was dawn.
Kip heard the scratching of claws along the outside of the house. Dozens of Shadows criss-crossed past the window, stippling the light as they sped past. He could hear them furiously working, ripping at the structure.
They’re taking it apart, he realized. They’re disassembling this memory.
The floor heaved, floorboards cracking then falling away. A hole broke through the wall as two purple-orb eyes peered in for a moment before moving on.
Shadow, his Shadow, bounded into the room, hopping over the disappearing floor. He went pale as a piece of the wall gave way, passing through him, then snapped back into focus.
“Time to go!” he yelped.
Kip grabbed the rest of his clothes, rolling them into a bundle, then snatched up his green satchel and turned towards the door. The house heaved to the right and Kip and Shadow went with it, hitting the eastern wall as picture frames rained down on them. The corner of one caught Kip in the temple and a thin trail of blood bloomed there, dripping down the side of his face.
The bed was sliding towards them now, vibrating over the decaying floor, looking like some bucking animal. Kip scooped up Shadow and ran towards the door. The bed sped past them and crashed through the wall, raining splinters into the air and smashing the remaining pictures.
Memories, Kip thought. Memories can’t hurt you.
But he knew they could.
The staircase was now an abstraction, impossible to navigate. Kip reached out for a bannister that was no longer anchored to the floor. It wobbled then came apart, falling a story down to the ground below.
The Shadows continued their work, like a host of termites. More eyes and claws sped past as they dissolved the house.
The floor of the balcony heaved again as it decoupled from the rest of the house. It floated in mid-air, balanced on two support beams and began to fall. Shadow leaped forward, going pale as he found a dark patch nestled along one of the beams. He snaked down to the ground floor below.
“Slide down!” he purred.
Kip jumped forward as the floor fell away, and rode the beam down to the living room below. He landed with a thud and rolled across the floor as splinters fell like rain.
The bookshelves heaved as more purple light broke through. Books fell around them, empty pages fluttering by. They knocked the bottled ships onto the floor where the glass shattered, freeing the tiny vessels.
His mind filled with nonsense. He wanted to be on one of those ships, sailing away from here on a sea of broken glass.
Shadow was tugging at his sleeve, hopping up and down on his small legs. A rending crack above made them run, jumping through the front door as the structure collapsed, bits of wood and tangled roots snapping at their heels.
They ran past the wrought-iron fence with the faulty latch, slamming it wide.
The Shadows moved over the surface of the wreckage like the tide over sand, their purple eyes blurring into a spiral of light as they sucked up all that remained of Enos’s home. A piece of Enos was going with it, a puzzle-piece of memory that had kept him intact in Kip’s mind. As if to cement the thought, the pale vision of Enos joined them, standing stone-still to watch the Shadows do their work. He was even more faint now than the day before.
The earth yawned and reclaimed the house, leaving a swirl of dust, and then nothing. The Shadows stood over the empty space, lost in a trance-like state. Then, one by one, they retreated.
All that remained was the bit of metal fence. The owl watched them, left on his lonely perch. That will be gone soon enough, Kip thought.
Through the arch of the fence Kip could see a faint path, no more than a layer of dust. It snaked over the horizon and out of sight, drawn to the purple cloud on the horizon.
Kip had no doubt the path would take them there. But what they would meet on the way, he didn’t know.
12
This world is growing as I inhabit it.
Kip’s senses were filled with the Pale World. It was ever-evolving, shrugging off the dream and becoming real.
The smooth ground had changed. Black roots snaked from the earth like wet eels gathered together for warmth. They all moved along the same path.
Kip looked back to see Enos trailing behind. He seemed incapable of walking with them no matter how slowly they moved. The light pierced his body like sunlight cutting through smoke.
It was painful to see him so diminished.
If this world is coming into focus, perhaps he will, too.
Shadow had his nose to the ground, his attention captured by something Kip couldn't see. He’d read that some animals had such a keen sense of smell that it became a kind of second sight. His friend looked up at a wall of mist ahead.
“Trees,” he purred in his sing-song voice.
Massive dark columns stretched towards the sky, their tops hidden by fog. Branches bent over the path like meshed fingers. It looked like the nave of a cathedral. Kip wondered what he’d find at the altar.
A cool breeze flowed down the path and then reversed, like a giant breathing.
There was a shape moving through the trees, far down the trail.
Kip doubted if he’d even seen it, until it a
ppeared again. It weaved between the trees as it moved in stuttering bursts. The mist moved with it like a cloak.
Shadow stood on his hind-legs peering down the path. His eyes were wide and alert.
“Can you tell what it is?” Kip whispered, hating how his voice sounded in the gloom.
His friend put a paw to the ground and a splinter of blue raced away from it. It was weaker than before but still visible. It ran down the path in a zig-zagging pattern.
Shadow’s eyes pulsed with its movement. But whatever he’d done, it returned no answer.
Kip thought he could name the shadow: Lord Blackmoor.
Vorax said he’d taken what he needed from the magician, a cocoon feeding on the butterfly inside instead of giving it strength. The old man had gotten a head-start, moving under the cover of night. Even when broken, a man so powerful could be dangerous. There was no use chasing him.
What would I do if I caught him?
As the trees closed in, a foggy light began to mark the trail. The hollows in the trunks held soft green lights.
They look like street-lamps.
The trees parted, as they entered a clearing.
A bulge in the earth rose slightly into a small mound, speckled moss covering it in patches. The roots all converged to this center point and poured into a tree at the top of the hill.
Kip moved closer.
It looked as if gravity had compacted it, not allowing it to flourish. The fingers of each limb had grown into small cages, wood knitting together to form bars. They were clamped shut with no locks or hinges, no way for their captives to escape.
Huddled in each cage was a black bird, more shadow than real. They moved in a blur, their smoky wings trying to expand but hitting the walls of their cages. Some pecked at the wood with needle beaks. Each looked out with sharp blue eyes, cocking their heads to the side to observe Kip and Shadow. Harsh bird calls cut the air.
Kip thought of the bird woman of Potter’s Market and her caged birds. Only those, for a price, could be set free. Each of these had a life sentence.
Kip & Shadow Page 9
