Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  EVENMERE

  James Stoddard

  Book Three Of The

  Evenmere Chronicles

  Other Books by James Stoddard

  THE HIGH HOUSE

  THE FALSE HOUSE

  THE NIGHT LAND, A STORY RETOLD

  THIS TALE OF FIGHTS AND FLIGHTS

  AND POETRY MEN

  I DEDICATE TO MY SON

  WILL

  LONG MAY YOU RUN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writers write novels mostly in solitude, but novels become

  finely-honed only with the help of others. I am deeply grateful

  to my wife, Kathryn, First Reader of my books and my heart.

  Also to Lon Mirll and Kreg Robertson for their priceless

  critiques, without which this would not be the book it is today,

  to fan and friend Dr. Robert Finegold, a fine writer in his own

  right, for his invaluable insights, and to Scott Faris for his

  friendship and beautiful cover design.

  To have the opportunity to work again with Betsy

  Mitchell, who edited both The High House and The False

  House , is a gift beyond hope. Good editors show writers ways

  to make their books better; Betsy is one of the best.

  I owe an endless debt of gratitude, one I should have

  acknowledged long before now, to Terry Waldren, who made

  many things possible.

  Also thanks to fan Erin Shoemate for allowing me to use

  her Wonderfully Cool Name. Erin and I have met only through

  correspondence, so any actions or personality traits given to

  her namesake in no way reflect those of the real person.

  Finally, many thanks to those who have written over the

  years, asking for a third novel about Evenmere. They provided

  the encouragement that made this book happen.

  Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a

  lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete

  and unmistakable face … Yet when I walked a little farther I

  found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards

  away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world.

  Well, Sunday’s face escaped me; it ran away to right and left,

  as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made

  me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces.

  —The Man Who was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton

  The Poet of Vroomanlin Wood

  Jonathan T. Bartholomew made his way up the narrow

  stair toward the great attic of the infinite manor known as

  Evenmere. His lantern cast dim shadows on the wooden steps

  and unpainted walls. He trembled as he went, and could not

  stop trembling. If I can delay it for the first minute, there is a

  chance. If I can survive for sixty precious seconds …

  He reached the top and paused. No winds disturb the attic;

  the pelting rains are never heard within. It is set apart, as if

  outside time and space. Jonathan peered into the dimness,

  listening to a silence broken only by the rhythmic creaking of

  the floorboards.

  Like breathing , he thought. That’s right. The old serpent’s

  hot breath.

  He took a dozen paces forward, his boots making prints on

  the dusty boards. He paused, certain his presence had already

  been detected. This was the beast’s kingdom; nothing occurred

  in the attic without its knowing. Even if the creature were far

  from the stair, miles away in the depths of the immeasurable

  garret, distance meant nothing within its own realm; it could

  reach him in the twinkling of a moment.

  It likes to play with its prey, torment them like a great big

  tomcat with a mouse. Maybe that will buy a little time. It all

  depends. If it recognizes me, that might be good. Jonathan

  frowned. Or it might be as bad as bad can be. Terrible bad.

  A low rumbling arose, a throaty growl increasing in

  volume until every board in the attic resonated with it. The

  vibrations reached Jonathan’s feet, shaking his whole body,

  filling his chest with a pulsing pressure. He thrust his fingers

  into his ears. On and on it rolled, growing louder and louder;

  and when it was as loud as he thought flesh could endure, it

  increased even more. The pounding was in his head; the

  vibrations toppled him to his knees. And still the intensity

  grew.

  He rolled into a ball, gritting his teeth against the pain. I’m

  gonna be shaken to bits without even getting the chance to

  talk. Going to be pieces of Jonathan everywhere.

  The roaring abruptly ended. He groaned and lay gasping

  for breath. Bracing himself against the floor on his slender,

  ebony hands, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Sixty seconds. If I can last long enough to get its attention.

  Maybe I better say something, before it swoops by and gobbles

  me up.

  From out of the darkness a massive tail, thick as a tree

  trunk, slammed against the floor in front of him, sending him

  bouncing across the boards like a tossed coin. Head spinning,

  body aching from innumerable bruises, he crept on hands and

  knees to retrieve his lantern, which had rolled a few feet away.

  He raised the lamp.

  A tyrannosaurus of unspeakable proportions stood before

  him, its head large as a house. It reared its colossal frame into

  the attic heights, licking its lips with serpentine tongue, its

  rows of yellow teeth sharp as spears, its scent the

  overwhelming odor of reptile. Saliva, dripping from its open

  mouth, fell hissing to the floor. It bent over Jonathan and

  roared.

  The entire attic shook with its force. Jonathan could only

  cover his ears and squirm beneath the power of its awful

  trumpeting, certain he was about to die.

  The dinosaur ended its blaring cry. Its head was less than

  ten feet away, its terrible jaws so close Jonathan could see the

  red, festering sores on its gums.

  “Who is this dark morsel, scarecrow thin, who dares enter

  the attic of the Last Dinosaur?” Jormungand rumbled, its voice

  deep as a foghorn. “Speak! Tell me your name, the name of

  your kin, the name of your station.”

  Before Jonathan could answer, the dinosaur leaned even

  closer, so near its fetid breath enveloped him. Its cold,

  unblinking eyes narrowed. “Why, if it isn’t the famous

  Storyteller. Aren’t I the lucky one.”

  Jonathan drew a deep breath, and slowly, cautiously,

  climbed to his feet. He gave a low, theatrical bow, and without

  straightening, lifted his eyes toward the dinosaur’s face. “Most

  folks call me that, but I prefer going by Jonathan T.

  Bartholomew. At your service.”

  “You will indeed be served,” Jormungand replied. “With

  butter if I can find it. I have noticed you off and on for

  centuries, Jonathan Bartholomew, wandering from country to

  country, the perpetual tramp, the eternal hobo, spre
ading your

  jaunty little stories to lighten the heart and warm the inner

  soul. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been dying to eat you.”

  “That’s right,” Storyteller said, trying to steady his voice.

  “That’s right. But before you do, tell me, do you like living in

  this big ol’ attic?”

  “A question. But you aren’t the Master of the house, and I

  am not required to answer.”

  “That’s true,” Jonathan said, “but since there’s just you and

  me way up here in the dark, and so much time to spend with

  nothing to do, why not tell me? Besides, I don’t ask it for my

  own gain, nor for yours, so it’s as if it’s not really a question at

  all. More like a presumption waiting for a testimonial.”

  The dinosaur stood eyeing the man, its head weaving back

  and forth, its heavy breath pumping in and out. Finally, it said,

  “I do not enjoy it here. I was imprisoned ages ago by Those

  even I may not defy.”

  “It must get dreary dull,” Jonathan said, “all these

  centuries up here alone. I can just imagine you, dreaming of

  long-denied battles, struggles from the days of blood and

  breaking bones, when you were Cyclops and Grendel and

  Dragon slaying warriors by the thousands, longing for the time

  when you can make your escape and slip away to do all your

  old mischief. Raisin’ Cain; makin’ trouble.”

  Jormungand’s head lifted higher. “That is well-said. I do

  have a dream, a grand aspiration of being free again, a vision

  of a single, united world where all humanity suffers equally

  beneath my dominion, without respite, without hope. I dream

  of burning fields and wasted cities, victims scrabbling through

  the wreckage under the light of a million cold and distant stars.

  I dream of children orphaned, of the old and infirm left to die,

  of deadly plagues and torrential floods, of massacre on an

  indescribable scale, armies slaughtered by the millions, the

  smoke from the pyres blotting out the sky. I dream of cracks in

  the earth leading to the molten core, planets sundered from

  their orbits and whole suns extinguished. I dream of

  destruction as art and myself as the master artist.” Jormungand

  gave a groaning sigh. “Yes, I have a dream.”

  “Poor beast. Is there nothing else in your heart?”

  “Only that. But we each must have our little fantasies. And

  who are you to enter my domain, the country of the Last

  Dinosaur, offering pity, seeking to touch the pain of he who is

  Pain, he who knows that none of his dreams will ever come

  true? Would you dare give comfort to Despair? What

  stupendous ego!”

  “I didn’t come to offer pity, old worm, for there’s nothing

  in you it can touch, but only to tell a story.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “One you already know.”

  “Why should I listen to something I have heard before, and

  why should you slink up here to tell it?”

  “Because it must be told, and only in hearing it can you

  understand the necessity for its telling.”

  “Mysterious and abstruse. How philosophical. How wise. I

  don’t like abstruse. I think I will eat you, instead.”

  Jormungand opened his jaws, preparing to strike. Jonathan’s

  heart fluttered.

  “You could do that,” the man said quickly, shaking a

  slender, ebony finger at the monster. “You could have me for a

  snack. ‘Course, I wouldn’t be much, the smallest tidbit, the

  tiniest morsel for that great big appetite of yours, that endless

  craving, that terrible hunger no amount of flesh can slake.

  That’s right. Better, wouldn’t you think, to eat me after you

  and I have passed the time with a good yarn, after we’ve

  whittled down a few moments of eternity? Neither for your

  amusement nor your edification, but simply because it’s what I

  came to do?”

  Jormungand eyed him for endless seconds. Finally, the

  behemoth closed its jaws and gave a heavy nod.

  “Very well. Begin your little recitation. Every moment it

  diverts me delays your death. Think of yourself as the

  Scheherazade of the attic. But don’t expect a thousand nights,

  or even a thousand seconds.”

  “Mighty fine,” the man said, wiping the sweat from his

  brow. “Mighty fine.”

  Beneath the dinosaur’s very fangs, Storyteller reached into

  his backpack and withdrew a worn, woolen blanket. He spread

  it carefully on the floor and sat cross-legged upon it, his

  lantern by his side, its beams catching the planes of his dark

  face.

  “I will begin at the beginning,” Jonathan T. Bartholomew

  said.

  Beyond Jonathan’s wildest hopes, the dinosaur stood silent

  as a child, listening.

  As every youngster knows, Storyteller began, and many

  foolish adults refuse to believe, Evenmere, the High House, is

  the mechanism that runs the universe. Its lamps must be lit lest

  the stars fail; its clocks must be wound lest Time cease. The

  Master of the house must maintain the Balance between Chaos

  and Order so the warp and weave of existence does not

  unravel. The Circle of Servants aids him in his task; and the

  White Circle Guard and the myriad rulers of the countries

  within the mansion help maintain his authority.

  But a most peculiar stranger has appeared in the halls of

  the mansion. He has traveled many miles through the

  corridors and halls of Evenmere, driven by a need few can

  comprehend. Perhaps he doesn’t quite comprehend it himself,

  but it will lead him to perform terrible deeds. And in the doing,

  he and others like him will shake the foundations of the house,

  and with it, the entire universe …

  As the Poetry Man made his way through a tapestried

  hallway of the High House, he trailed his hand along the wall,

  laughing in delight at the cool touch of the oak paneling. His

  eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I can feel the proximity of stone.

  It is very near.”

  Since heeding the call of the Wild Poetry he had traveled

  the house, spreading the word, sharing it with whoever would

  hear. With his verse and the tiny chameleon who whispered

  from its position on his shoulder, he had been drawn through

  Ooz and West Wing and the green corridors of Gittenty. From

  there he had passed into the winding passages of Tengfey,

  which are adorned with carvings of astronomers and

  leprechauns.

  He now stood at the border of Jossing, a blue antechamber

  unguarded save by double doors flanked by marble wolves.

  On the lintel were carved the words, Welcome to Jossing, Land

  of Stone .

  He flung the doors wide, sending them rattling against the

  walls. A balding clerk, seated at a desk in the small chamber,

  started at the sound and stood in alarm.

  “Fear nothing, friend,” the poet said, “I’ve come in peace

  today. To spread all cheer to Evenmere, and to your happy

  kin.”

  With a strangled cry the man fled the chamber, spilling

>   quill and ink in his haste.

  The poet laughed. He did not know why those he met

  feared him, nor did it concern him; his business was only with

  those who desired his gift.

  Leaving the chamber, he entered a short corridor.

  Following the sound of the clerk’s receding footfalls, he turned

  onto another passage with walls covered with mosaics

  depicting distant mountains.

  After a time, the passage gradually widened. The

  mountains on the mosaics slowly grew closer; the carpet

  changed from gold to dusty brown, with patterns like veins of

  ore scattered across it. The light, which issued from louvered

  openings in the ceiling, lessened until he proceeded through

  twilight. In the dimness his eyes seemed to betray him; the

  rock patterns on the walls and floor appeared to be real stone

  protruding into the passage.

  To his delight, he became aware of the noise of gravel

  beneath his boots. Kneeling, he ran his hand over the ground,

  which was no longer carpet, but bedrock. He retrieved a rough

  limestone shard, tossed it in the air, caught it, and let it fall

  clattering against the stones. Just ahead the ceiling was higher,

  and escarpments descended from it, giving the passage the

  appearance of a narrow gorge. Desert vegetation—cactus and

  yucca, long-stemmed wild grasses—grew between the rocks;

  stone columns supported the ceiling. He grinned. He had heard

  that Jossing began this way, the house melding into a country

  of rolling canyons. Countless lands lay beneath the eaves of

  Evenmere, and he intended to spend the rest of his existence

  spreading his gift to as many as possible.

  Moving gracefully among the boulders, he wound along

  the corridor, gradually ascending, singing as he went:

  Earth and Stone

  Earth and Stone

  Massive mountains

  Caverns deep

  Molten deserts

  Underground

  Where the heart

  Of granite sleeps

  As he sang, he felt the power of the earth welling within

  him—like calling to like—filling him with its strength. The

  source of his poetry was that of high crags and subterranean

  pits, molten mantles and mountain peaks. It was that kinship to

  Jossing which had drawn him here.