Kip & Shadow

by David Pietrandrea

  The force threw Kip backwards. On his back, he looked up at the gray sky and the smoke streaming overhead.

  A splinter of wood stuck out of his arm. He gently pulled it out and felt the blood flow from the hole it had made. The vial in his pocket vibrated.

  He looked at the wreckage of his home; his memories, his entire life shattered in a heap.

  As he got up, he saw his shade running away.

  “Our work’s not done!” he yelled.

  They had to finish this together, he knew that now. This scared, delicate part of him had to share the ending.

  Kip ran after him.

  The shade phased in and out as it ran, stumbling over cobblestones. It darted ahead, teleporting a few feet at a time as it decided if it should stay or go.

  He wants to go back to the Three Nymphs Fountain, he thought. To die in the shallow water or to stare into it for all eternity.

  A lighting strike cut the air behind them. It rippled over Pale London, moving down the streets and through buildings. Laughter mingled with the light, an old man’s cackle.

  As the thunderclap rolled away, a grinding sound replaced it.

  Kip looked back. His shade, too, was transfixed.

  The rubble of Alchemy House shifted. It groaned like a beast, then began to move.

  Wooden beams shuddered from the wreckage, their ends joining together forming an armature. A red light wove in and out of every space like a mouse darting from hole to hole. It was a demolition moving in reverse.

  Ceiling beams bent to make a ribcage, an empty void where the heart should have been.

  Black shingles flew over the skeleton like bats, covering it in scales.

  Large stones rolled up wooden arms until they settled into a head-shape. Two black pits for eyes.

  My hearth.

  Kip was transfixed by it. He knew he should run or scream but he was frozen.

  Then a voice boomed.

  “Kip of Alchemy House!” it said as the head ignited. Flames leapt into the eyes and bled through the mouth. It opened its jaw, showing broken glass teeth, each one catching the light.

  The giant shook off the rubble and got to its feet, the last bits of it all flying into place.

  And it laughed, a broken glass laugh.

  Dust fell from its body as it looked around, taking in Pale London with two stone eyes.

  Standing beneath it was Lord Blackmoor. He was the engine driving it.

  Kip’s shade turned and ran again.

  “I’m not done with you yet!” he yelled after it.

  The monster roared and another shockwave moved over the city. As it rolled away, it was answered with a tinkling sound like a thousand tiny bells.

  Glass stripped away from every window frame, pulled out like extracted teeth. The shards met in the air and danced in circles before focusing on their target. They followed Kip with a terrifying precision.

  The magician was coming, wrapped in a lurching giant. The glass buzzed overhead, an army moving ahead of its commander.

  The first wave of glass raced forward, whistling through the air. Kip caught up to his shade and pushed him forward, gripping him tightly by the arm.

  “Don’t look back!” he yelled over the deafening buzz.

  They ran down the street, a boy and his double, looking for some way to escape. Kip forced his shade down an alleyway, just as a thousand glass teeth caught up with them. The splinters hammered the timbered side of a building where Kip had just been a moment before, shredding wood and impaling stone.

  The alley was no more than three feet wide, forcing them to run in single file. Glass broke above them and rained down with a musical timbre that was almost pleasant. Kip put his hands up to protect himself.

  They ran on and on, just escaping each wave of attack. The glass moved like a patrolling army, some following from behind while others snaked down adjacent streets, trying to cut them off. The hollow windows of Pale London looked on, gaping eye sockets watching a fox hunt.

  Kip didn’t know how long they’d run but the streets were suddenly familiar again. Chiswell Street, Royal Street, and straight on to Magic House.

  The alleyway widened like a river meeting the sea; the vast courtyard that preceded the magician’s house leaving them exposed. A wave of glass swept over the tops of buildings and froze in the air, each point trained on Kip and his shade.

  The giant’s booming footsteps echoed across the square.

  Its head came into view, peaking over the rooftops. It spotted Kip and its eyes flared. Rushing ahead, it crashed through a row of buildings, turning them to pulp. The wreckage spilled into the square. The creature stepped over it and stretched to its full height. Its fire eyes exploded, cutting sharp shadows and dimming the rest of the world.

  Kip turned to his shade. “No more running. Never again.”

  The vial in his pocket was a heartbeat now. It pumped with a steady rhythm.

  A figure approached through the wreckage.

  Lord Francis Blackmoor emerged from the shadows. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. A thin track of blood ran from his mouth and he dabbed at it with the back of his hand. He came like a bag of bones, clattering over every cobblestone.

  “Strange that fate would bring us back here, no?”

  He looked over Kip’s shoulder at his darkened home, its light extinguished as it faded into the gray sky. The giant followed his gaze, Alchemy House looking at Magic House.

  Another wave of glass came up from behind Kip, until they was completely surrounded. The shards moved slowly as if they were breathing, gently rising and falling, and waiting for their master’s command.

  Blackmoor smiled his sick toothless smile.

  “What is an alchemist without his tools? No potions and tinctures to save you now, boy. How impotent you are.”

  He extended a withered hand.

  “Give me that invitation to Dark House.”

  Kip shook his head.

  “You weren’t invited.”

  Blackmoor’s smile widened and for a moment, Kip saw him as he had been in the world. The man who had entertained royalty and dazzled London with his abilities. It was the last time anyone would see him like that, the last time any good memory would outweigh the bad. Somewhere his heart had turned black.

  “Then die, Alchemist, as you should have long ago. Die as all broken things should. Join your perverted friend. You built this place for him, after all.”

  Blackmoor closed his eyes. The ember fire burned beneath his eyelids, casting its terrible light. The giant’s eyes burned too, turning its stone head to molten rock. It dripped in waves from the eye sockets, two long red tears.

  Kip felt a heartbeat.

  The creature screamed. Glass razors shot from its mouth. It lunged forward. Arms outstretched, fingers clawed. It looked like it was going to embrace him. The army of glass shards followed, closing in a tight circle.

  Kip imagined the glass shredding his body, ripping through clothes, then flesh, then bone. The blades would denude him down to nothing. There would be an ending, a final ending. Blackmoor would dig through the scraps to find the invitation he so desperately wanted.

  Kip stood his ground. He reached out a hand and grabbed his shade’s arm. It was like grabbing a shadow, but he held on.

  Something moved in his chest. It was a single thumping beat that brought a spasm of pain. His hand went to his vest pocket and found the vial there. A golden light pulsed from it, moving through his hand and racing outward in a perfect sphere.

  Screaming, the giant closed the distance, its body slamming into the circle of light. Its scream of rage turned to one of pain.

  Blackmoor fell to one knee with a gasp.

  The light carved into the giant. Its arms tried to grab it, desperate to find Kip and crush him. The glass blades met the light in a furious collision. They sparked like small fireworks. The air filled with a thousand sharp popping sounds as Blackmoor’s weapons were destroyed one by one.

/>   The old man watched as his work was rendered useless. All the glass in Pale London flowed into the sphere and was obliterated.

  Kip turned to his shade to see the look of horror on his face.

  “Don’t be afraid anymore,” he said.

  The giant howled as it tried to reach him. Alchemy House disintegrated around him. He saw flashes of his old life go by, pieces of his home that were now part of this monster. A grasping hand reached towards him as its fingers burned away to nothing.

  And then it was over.

  The final spark of evaporating glass gave way to a cloud of dust. It swirled around them, filling the square before drifting over rooftops and out of sight.

  The golden light contracted back into Kip’s pocket, leaving only a slight vibration.

  Lord Blackmoor let his driftwood cane drop to the ground. It bounced over cobblestones before coming to rest. Whatever life had fueled him for this last lap had left him. Age had caught up with him.

  He fell to his knees, a look of sorrow on his face.

  “I just wanted…”

  His voice trailed into silence as his body swayed, pushed by some invisible force. He looked up at Kip.

  “Help me get to Dark House, boy. It’s the only thing that can save me. It’s the end point on the map. Help me get there.”

  His breath labored as if it were being pulled through a cloth. It came in waves, each one farther apart than the next.

  He was looking at the middle space between Magic House and the sky above. His eyes widened. Kip turned and saw nothing but the gray roof of Magic House and the stars peeking through a pale sky. But the magician was transfixed by some private sight.

  “Oh, God. It’s beautiful,” he said, with more horror than wonder.

  Lord Francis Blackmoor fell forward, his head hitting the ground with a soft thud, and died.

  24

  Kip looked at Blackmoor’s body. He took in the stillness of it. He felt a hint of pity, even now. The driftwood cane had rolled a few feet away and still wobbled back and forth on the uneven ground. Then, it too, stopped.

  His shade was transfixed by the dead magician, his watery eyes taking in the sight.

  “Come,” Kip said, as he turned and faced the wide square; Magic House waited at the other side, and something else. The air had turned electric.

  His heels clicked on cobblestones; cobblestones that had paved the way for beggars and kings, whores and maidens, and all the residents of London in the long arc of history. Here in Pale London, who knew what else had walked these streets?

  He turned his head to see the door to Magic House open. Britten and Fairfield walked down the stairs. They didn’t see him, maybe they couldn’t. They were paler than ever, merely a hint of two people. They had their loop to run, their boat waiting for them in Surrey. Kip was going to end all loops.

  Goodbye, Britten. Goodbye, Fairfield. Lost souls like me, he thought.

  But something in him resisted self-pity. There was a whisper inside that began to speak, to raise its voice until it was an exclamation.

  Kip pulled the vial from his pocket and held it up, the light of it bleeding through his fingers. It refracted off of every surface, dazzling the stones at his feet. The world was transformed by its light. Its warmth bled into his hand and moved up his arm until it settled in his chest, where he hoped it would stay.

  The structure of Magic House loomed in the mist ahead, looking less fearsome now. It was dead just like its master. Kip could see the stained-glass dome of the dining room ceiling, its glass darkened. The flood of memory came, bringing with it images that now seemed so distant.

  The half-remembered life he had once had. He felt the arc lights of Blackmoor’s imprisonment and the endless stars above. Shadow was curled at his feet, happy to sit near a fire, happy to listen and learn. Drinks imbibed, food eaten, knowledge shared.

  But Kip wasn’t here for Magic House or its memory. He looked up as a bell sounded, the bell. He was so close to it now he thought it would deafen him. It was a sound that could crack stone. The ripple of its noise was visible in the night sky, blurring the stars as a wave moved out in all directions.

  The sound was above Magic House, but it was anchored to something, something that had remained just out of sight in the real London, hidden from all the gawking stares and questioning minds.

  It was Dark House.

  As the bell faded, its structure became visible; built on the back of Magic House but made to eclipse it. It was a monstrous thing, beautiful but unknowable. Walls and rooflines appeared as they traced an outline in the sky, like a blueprint pulled from a drafting table.

  Kip saw now what it was, every angle, every vertex and line, was mapped to a constellation. It could only be seen from one vantage point, presumably at one time, under one night sky. He looked up at the stars, lost in their patterns. This was no night sky that London had ever seen.

  The patterns wove together and brought Dark House to life. It had many steep gables poking from the rooftop like a bottom row of teeth, each one with a sunken window in it. Something moved behind each pane of glass, or many restless things that had waited for this moment to be seen. There were towers on each end of the house and one in the center that rose above the rest.

  The main tower climbed into the sky, its flat black walls made of a deeper part of night. The tower abandoned the map of constellations and found its own shape; maybe something far from earth, far from their solar system. It wanted to be looked at, after all this time, it wanted to be perceived.

  At the pinnacle of the tower was a clock, if something so abstract could be called a clock. It had a circular face that shimmered between two and three dimensions, first a flat circle then a globe of light. There were no hands but a series of moving arcs of light that wove themselves into different patterns.

  It’s not measuring time, Kip thought. Or, at least, not a time measured in minutes and hours. Nothing so mundane as linear time with its one marching direction.

  Kip held the vial up, letting its light shine out. It spilled onto the faint outline of a giant double-door, the light giving it shape. Dark House accepted the gift with a low rumble and the doors began to grind open, moving outward.

  They opened wide, a darker spot in a wall of constellations.

  Kip took a deep breath and entered.

  25

  Blackness surrounded him. It felt organic, a thin membrane he could almost touch, but if he tried, it slinked away, leading him farther on.

  It led him through a maze, now turning right, now pushing straight ahead, each choice pre-ordained. Each turn brought an emotion, until Kip felt as if he’d left his body and was free to wander, free to re-live forgotten memories and fantasies. They mixed together in a sweet but painful concoction.

  There was his first sight, far too bright and tinged with red.

  With blood.

  Muscles stretched, lungs inhaled. Every fiber was tested for strength. How far could this form be pushed? What great things could it do? What hurts could it sustain?

  Now there was emotion and it swelled and rallied with double the fierceness, bringing things wanted and unwanted.

  Love begins with Mother and Father, then twists and turns and mutates into something; sometimes beautiful, sometimes not. But it starts there with a single seed and life makes it grow. Every decision adds a branch or a leaf, or sometimes a flower. Those same decisions are shears that can cut away the growth, or a drought that can choke the plant to death.

  Maybe it’s perennial, Kip thought. Maybe it can come back even after a fire.

  I left them behind long ago, abandoned and cast out. I found my own way in this world. But what way had he found? A lost love, an obsession, and the mastery of a house he didn’t deserve. If all his decisions had brought him to this point, what was their value? If he had gone right each time he should have gone left, what was the purpose?

  Kip put his hand out, groping for some support and felt a wall push back against his
palm. He steadied himself but immediately pulled his hand away, hating the sensation. It was like a liquid without any wetness, always moving, struggling against some unseen force.

  There was a staircase ahead of him and he lurched towards it, trying to move forward no matter what direction. Something moved down the wall and then stopped at the top of the stairs to look back. Two purple eyes trained on him.

  He wanted to call out, to see if this was his Shadow, but something stopped him.

  Push on, a voice said.

  He was at the top of a staircase. It opened up, a wide and grand thing that flared out at the bottom. These were stairs to make an entrance on, but what pomp and circumstance would take place here? It was not a place for celebration.

  As he descended the staircase, whatever had fogged his eyes began to clear.

  What stood before him boggled the mind. It was the great hall of Dark House.

  Huge columns lined the hall. From a distance they looked like stone but the marbled pattern on their surface moved slowly, rising upwards. As Kip stepped closer he saw what looked like the milky pattern of a nebula or star system, always in flux. It spiraled up until it blended with buttresses and beams that were also made of stars, the structures only visible when he walked forward.

  The floor of the vast hallway was paved with stones, each one carved with words.

  “Tombstones,” he whispered.

  A nearly endless collection of names and lifespans, all huddled together and worn down by many footfalls. The names and dates jumped out at him, each one telling a story that he’d never hear.

  450 B.C.

  1066 A.D.

  1442 A.D.

  1821 A.D.

  3044 A.D.

  Abantes. Zhao Buwei Fa. Badru Bahati. Sally Archer Callum. Matthew Wright.

  Would his name be marked here someday? Would it be written on the stones for others to read?

  A light grew at the end of the hall like morning sun through a lifting fog. The expanse of Dark House stretched out before him, too big to take in.