I don’t believe it, Fay thought angrily, he’s doing it again. He must hate swimmers.
Children were running screaming from the water. Weirdly, the volleyball game continued, although some of the players had fallen over. That was as clear a way as any for separating the Malak-made from the natural born.
As a giant marble arm came into view, wielding the white sword, Fay remembered where she had seen that limb of stone before: Grandfather’s statue guarding his domain in Winter that she had seen from the Stone Mountain. The appearance of the colossus here was not a good sign.
The cruel head broke the surface as Malak stood, his black suit covered by purple robes he’d yanked out of Heaven knows what, and began to address the assembled company. “Fiends, Humans, Countrythings, lend me your abject support. I am known by many titles: Lord Malak, the Dour One, the Monster, even Grandfather to some, and Uncle, and ‘that no good son of a…’ well, I am honored by many titles. The time has come to proclaim: Out with the old regime, on with the new and improved. One title will do from now on.”
He took a deep drink of the red punch while everyone remained silent and terrified (the next best thing to being respectful). The statue was up to its waist by now. Grandfather Malak reached under his robes into his jacket pocket and removed a small, brown rock which he then laid upon the picnic table.
“Now this,” he intoned, “used to be the Lord High Mayor of Winter.”
“I told you he did that!” squeaked Mr. Wynot to the world at large. Jennifer of Winter, eyes watering, cried a thin stream of ice-blue crystals.
“Before this busy fellow went into retirement,” Malak continued, “he was critical of my setting up a base of operations in his Season.” The speaker glared down the table; and no one dared speak. “I don’t recall anyone objecting when you-know-who built her little house in Autumn. Double standards are always irritating. Anyhow, the mayor of Winter accused me of wanting to be master of more than I ought. Sheer modesty forced me to cut him off before he could elaborate. In his honor, good and gentle beings here assembled, you may henceforth refer to me as Master.”
“Even you have never dared break the rules,” said Jennifer of Spring.
“Shoo, you little pest. No rules have been broken because no one is in danger here, at least not among the invited guests. That’s what hospitality is all about. The only conflict is due to….”
“Mrs. Norse,” said Fay helpfully.
“Oh, child,” his hand snaked out so as to gently caress her neck, “you should watch your language. Bad words have a place but they should be used sparingly.”
The statue had finished rising from the lake. Some of the young children, having regained their courage, were gathering again at the water’s edge. They were far more interested in the monument to Malak’s pride than anything he might actually be saying or doing.
“To continue,” he continued, “I should do a little something to consecrate my Masterdom. So it is that I take a moment in this timeless place to let you in on my plan. Both sides of the family are well represented at our little picnic. Without them, I wouldn’t be who I was or what I became. My loyal Slaks back on Earth gave me the idea when they reported the unexpected visit of Aunt Miner. So sparing no expense, I invited everyone.”
Holding up a hand to staunch non-existent aplause, he summed up: “The guests of honor are missing, I grant you, but that will be remedied.” He stared at Fay. Then he stared at Clive. “The guests of honor will be with us soon.”
After finishing the last of the punch, he threw the cup over his shoulder, confirming more unsavory thoughts Fay held for him. Litterbug, she thought. Clive wondered how much dynamite it would take to blow up the statue. He hadn’t had the pleasure of using the exploding pine cones, and would have been very unhappy to realize that Fay had left them behind in Spring.
“I’ve been the victim of a propaganda campaign, put out by….” Grandfather hesitated, choosing his next words with care, “the enemy. She would have you believe that I’m against the Seasons. Lies, all lies! What I intend to do is take the cliches out of the Seasons and reinvigorate them with a fresh approach. What’s so bad about that? I have nothing against Winter, but snow and ice and cold have become a bore! As for Summer, it has its charm … but why must it always be so damned hot? Spring has its place, but must it always be warm; and what is more boringly predictable than its freshness, I ask you? Finally, we have the worst cliches of all in Autumn. No wonder the enemy chose to live there. The changing leaves is a real yawner!”
Fay concluded that, magical powers notwithstanding, Grandfather was still completely nuts. Enjoying the sound of his own voice, Lord Malak kept right on: “Now I know what some of you are thinking: did he fire six shots, or only five? No wait, sorry about that. Cliches are like a plague. They creep up on you. They’re worse than cockroaches. ‘Course we’re fortunate not to have cockroaches in this pristine world, but do I get any credit for that? I’m the one who emptied the Seasons of its more annoying pests! Bet you didn’t know that.
“And I’m working every day to make things better and better. Does the enemy care? Or the dragon, do I get any credit from the dragon? No, and I’ll tell you why. Mrs. Norse and the dragon are two peas in a pod; they like things the old way, all messy and ragged around the edges. They claim this world is shrinking when it’s obviously the universes that are growing bigger. They blame anything that goes wrong on me. Always it’s me! Can you beat that? As for this little world of theirs, it’s always been this size. There’s a myth that it was bigger once but that’s the biggest cliche of them all!”
He had to stop and catch his breath. Row upon row of staring eyes and open mouths brought him back to what passed for his reality. Speaking more softly, he said, “I haven’t come to destroy the Seasons. Far from it, I’m offering progress, change, variety. The Seasons have become as boring and predictable as a bad marriage.”
He shuddered, then leaned over to Fay and said, “I’m sorry about that, but as you know, sometimes bad language is required for the right effect.”
Straightening up again, he clapped his hands. The chest of the giant statue creaked open, revealing two human beings locked in a cage where the idol’s heart would be. They were Mom and Dad.
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The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.
Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE OWS IN VOWS
“Mom,” cried Fay. Clive hestitated to speak. “Dad,” cried Fay. Clive still remembered how he had been taken in by the Slaks at the village of Il. These two pathetic people, hunched over in a cage, seemed real enough. But he couldn’t be sure. Would he ever be sure again?
“They can’t hear you,” said Grandfather. “I’ll bring them to you.” There was something terrible about watching Malak enjoy himself. He clapped his hands, as much to applaud himself as to pass on instructions.
The statue began to move. This sent kids scurrying. As before, the volleyball players paid no heed, even after it stepped on one of them as its giant feet SHOOSHED SHOOSHED out of the water, dragging mud from the lake bottom.
Several blood relatives lept to their feet as if to flee, but with one shouted word of black magic, Grandfather who was Malak held them in their places. He didn’t need do much about Aunt Miner. One look at what was causing the commotion and she fainted dead away. Fay couldn’t decide if the various friends and family members had any idea where they were.
The gargantuan statue impressed Clive quite a bit, as it continued to impress volleyball players into the ground. Back home, he had a picture of the Colossus of Rhodes right over his bed, next to Madonna. There was no sword in the statue’s hand but otherwise it was very similar, excepting the face
. The THUD THUD of stone feet brought Clive back to the here and now; and he hoped that Grandfather was adept enough with his wizadry to prevent the giant stepping where it wasn’t intended. Concern for his parents, if they were his parents, was equally balanced against the personal desire not to be squished. Or squashed.
The statue came to rest a few yards short of the picnic tables. Fay ran over to it but Clive held back, afraid it might move again. Malak/The Master/The Dour One/Grandfather did nothing to prevent her, and seemed to be encouraging Clive to join Fay. No one else budged from their seats and Clive had the impression of their being held in place by magic. The Jennifers could not be restrained by such means, but they remained seated, heads close together, as if holding themselves in reserve.
Clive finally swallowed hard and took a few tentative steps toward his sister, who called out to him with: “We must wake them up!”
“Their eyes are closed,” Clive observed, “but that doesn’t mean they’re asleep.”
“Full marks, Clive,” said Grandfather. “You know a trance when you see one. What a promising career you could have had in the bureaucracy of your choosing.”
Suddenly dozens of the marching men with football heads appeared. Each carried a piece of long extension ladder. The foremost pushed Fay out of the way.
“Hey,” Clive started to protest but Fay surprised him by putting a finger to her lips and shushing him. He went over to his sister and helped her up. The two of them watched the operation. While the football-headed men worked to put the ladder together, hundreds of the samller jack-‘o-lantern men swarmed out of the woods and surrounded Clive and Fay, rubbing them with their soft, spongy hands.
“Just ignore them,” said Clive through clenched teeth. He was glad to find out that he was no longer afraid.
“Why isn’t Mrs. Norse here to help us?” asked Fay. Clive shrugged as though her absence didn’t bother him, but he was worried.
The strange men were bringing Mom’s limp body down the ladder first. She seemed to be in a trance. One football man had thrown her over his shoulder, the way a fireman might carry a child he was rescuing from a burning building. Suddenly Fay felt Malak’s cold hands on her shoulders. She pulled away.
“Dear children,” hissed Grandfather, “only you can save them. I’m giving you the chance to restore your parents’ marriage, and help the Seasons achieve their final destiny while you’re at it.”
“Why should we believe anything you say?” asked Clive angrily.
“When have I told you a lie? Think back to the first day I promised you great things in the future….”
“You never told us what you would do with Mom and Dad,” sobbed Fay, turning her face away.
With sophistry worthy of the lawyers he used to decry, Grandfather turned sweet reason into a sour emotion: “Was it my fault you were ripped cruelly from your world, and right after I’d made you masters in your own home? The Slaks were better than your original parents could ever be. They still are! I’d have let you continue bossing them around as long as your little hearts desired.”
Fay was about to respond with a kick to the old man’s shins when Clive pleasantly surprised her with: “You’re a liar, Grandfather! Mrs. Norse said you would have replaced us, too, if she hadn’t brought us here first.”
“Propaganda, dear boy.”
“You wouldn’t have left us there long enough to find your stupid gold,” Clive went on.
“Well, my dear grandson, at least I approve of your priorities.”
Fay wasn’t about to let him get away with that. Now it was her turn. “You picked Clive’s weakest moment, right after Dad beat him. But Clive already misses Mom … and Dad, too!”
“How terribly unfair to me,” said Malak, “after I rescue the two of you. The marriage was over, children, over except for the formalities. I provided you with the mother and father of your fondest dreams.”
Fay ran over to the recumbent form of her mother and cradled the head in her arms, as if she meant to cut off the rasping sounds that came from their mutual tormentor. “Don’t listen,” she said, as much for her own benefit, hugging Mom harder and harder, as if she could escape that way.
Clive turned from watching his father being brought down the ladder, and faced everyone’s mutual problem. “I don’t believe you. You hated Dad. You never wanted him to marry Mom. Why would you change now unless it serves your purpose about being Master of the Seasons?”
“Why, next you’ll say you don’t believe me when I say the sky is blue.” Malak sidled over and put an arm around Clive’s reluctant shoulders. “What color is it, anyway. Do you think that maybe it’s really … yellow, and the blue is a trick?”
Clive shrieked and pushed the bony arms away. His courage seemed to evaporate. How did the vile bastard know about a person’s weakest points, the areas you had to force way down, deep down in your mind, so they couldn’t come back up and haunt your best intentions?
“I’ve turned over a new leaf,” said Grandfather, chuckling at some private joke. “I’m going to make the Seasons better. “That’s why I was collecting taxes. Improvements don’t come free, you know, and it takes a lot of magic concentrated in one special place to get the job done.”
Clive and Fay exchanged glances again. The time they’d been separated in this unpredictable world had brought them closer together, if only through comfortable silences they could share. Malak could tell when would-be victims held private councils. There’d been no such trouble with the parents, but these damned (or undamned) kids were a different matter.
“I should never have sent Slaks to offer Clive honest work as a tax collector,” he admitted.
Walking over to where Mom and Dad lay sprawled across the grass, he made as if to lift them but actually held them down with a gesture both patronizing and full of anger. He stroked their heads as if they were animals, and pressed down hard so that Mom and Dad’s faces were ground into the dirt. “It’s time for us to be a real family again,” he said to the prostrate forms. “Already your offspring have grasped the meaning of responsibility to one another. They love. How you poor creatures ever produced two human beings is a mystery, but perhaps we’ll find an answer through your sacrifice.”
Malak reached inside his ample cloak and, with a flourish worthy of a stage magician, produced two silver daggers similar to the one Clive had seen the Slak version of his mother use on the beach. The Jennifers chose this moment to act. Jennifer of Spring bounded up from her seat so quickly that she knocked over Mr. Wynot, who was so deeply transfixed that he made a little peeping noise as he slid out of his seat. The unhappy man’s eyes were glassy, like the rest of the picnic revelers.
Malak was ready for the Jennifers. He drove the daggers into Mom and Dad’s backs with the speed of lightning. Fay gasped and tried to move from where she stood but it was as if an invisible hand clutched her, squeezing body and throat hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to kill. Clive couldn’t even lift his hand the few inches necessary to touch his sister by the arm in her hour of need.
The Jennifers didn’t seem to be trapped the way Clive and Fay were held in place; but the moment the blades were driven home the guardians of the Seasons joined hands and waited for what they knew must come next. Fay’s mind was frozen by the spectacle of her parents flailing on the ground, wriggling like bugs pinned to a board. There should have been blood, but the backs of her parents’ clothes showed no telltale signs of spreading crimson.
Something else was happening. The hilts of the two knives were glowing and light was lancing upwards at an angle where the two beams met; the single beam formed in this manner shot straight up at a different angle where it touched the sword held in the upraised hand of the giant statue. The stone blade began to glow.
While all this was going on, there was a low sound droning in the background, as if a million bees swarmed a few feet under the ground. Clive could move his arm. Fay turned her head to see him, as the immobility slowly drained from her tor
tured body. The Jennifers began to chant strange, melliflous words that provided a counterpoint to the annoying hum, as if trying to keep the sound from growing any louder and driving everyone mad.
Fay was first to notice the new danger. Forming directly over the blade of the stone sword was a small, white cloud. This was the second cloud she had seen in this world. She remembered the last one all too well. She didn’t feel any better when she saw a shadow forming underneath the cloud, a shadow in a world without shadows, that resembled a great bloated spider.
The cloud attacked. It fell toward them as if it were made of lead, while thin tendrils reached out from the shadow below, twitching and crawling across the ground. Everyone had noticed Malak’s latest monster by the time Fay screamed. Clive grabbed at her and tried to run, but there was no requirement for them to move.
The cloud passed over them, leaving a brief impression of frostbite, before heading toward the picnic tables. As the sky became a source of dread yet again in the Land of the Seasons, Malak chanted: “Takes two to make a marriage; takes two to make divorce; takes two to change the Seasons, and do it with blessed force.”
The Jennifers stood between the cloud and the others, staring, chanting their response to Malak in a private language of their own, but the cloud simply zoomed over their heads where it dissipated in the limbs of the trees. A few wisps of white mist drifted away and that was all.
“Good show,” said Malak, “pip, pip, and a bit of all right. Yo, Clive Gurney, yes you there, with the stolid expression, why don’t you be the first to investigate my latest masterwork. Don’t be shy, just wander over to the nearest tree and check it out!”
Nothing seemed different from his current vantage point, so he expected the worst. Still, it was a pleasure to be able to walk again. Clive walked over to the trees, brushing past nervous inlaws along the way. The first difference he noticed was a sickly sweet odor that was all wrong. Near at hand was an oak, or something so close it might as well be called one. Reaching out to brush the rough bark with his fingers, he felt the hair stand up on the back on his neck. “It feels real enough” he said as he made contact.
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