Other Kingdoms

by Richard Matheson

  He was sorry to hear about the pain I endured losing size. We shared a laugh about that mutual experience—the crunching of the skeleton, the shriveling sensation in the flesh. No fun, we agreed. Him in reverse, of course.

  Then, to my immediate dismay—later I was okay about it—he was saying good-bye. “See you someday, chum”—and the scrying picture faded; I was staring at water again.

  Someday, Harold. It’s a date.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The second—and third—attack on me occurred as follows. Sounds formal, doesn’t it? I’ll utilize A. Black vernacular. Soon after, Ruthana’s crazed brother took another crack at slaughtering young Alex. You see what kind of excess Black was prone to use—permanently staining world literature with overkill.

  The attacks, then.

  No. First, I meant to tell you that my afternoon with Garal was the most inspiring day of my life. I forgot. I’d better tell you now. How could I have been (here’s another combo) dumbly derelict in my writer’s duty? Once again, forgive me.

  Did I tell you what Garal looked like? Who he looked like, I mean.

  Don’t laugh now. Unless you really want to.

  Judge Hardy.

  That’s right. Andy Hardy’s father in the Mickey Rooney film series. Handsome, gray hair, wise, and patient. Lewis Stone was the actor’s name. The only difference between Mr. Stone and Garal was height. Garal was three and a half feet tall. I’m sure Lewis Stone was taller than that. And he didn’t wear a Munchkin-like green jacket like Garal.

  While we were ambling through the woods—did I mention how ideal the weather was that day, warm but with a cool, refreshing breeze? There I go again, sidetracking. Well, I’m eighty-two, almost eighty-three! Excuuuse me!

  Where was I? Yes, Garal and I ambling through the woods. (Did I mention the weather? Ha-ha. Joke.) I asked him about the relationship between the faeries and the citizens of Gatford. He told me that, at one time, centuries ago, the relationship had been extremely cordial. Well, maybe that’s exaggerating. Very nice, though. The Gatford citizens treated Faerieland with respect. They did favors for each other. The Gatford citizens left milk (always fresh) and bread for the faeries. Reciprocation consisted of such things as helping trees and plants grow bountifully, locating runaway pets and cattle (faeries love animals; well, most of them do), and other friendly acts. Gatford, at that time, was Gateford—a gateway between the worlds.

  Then, for some reason, the causes obscured in history, war “broke out” between the worlds. I put quotation marks around the words “broke out” because the commencement of any war always entails a breakage of some kind. Intelligence. Awareness. Humanity. All breaking simultaneously.

  The war lasted close to a hundred years and involved some nasty—and brutal—exchanges between human beings and faeries. During that period, the ugly bridge I mentioned some time ago was built to harm any little people who tried to cross it. The ugly cathedral-like structure on the opposite side of the stream was constructed for ritual magic to be performed to further harm the faeries. Dear God, what “human” beings will conceive of to assail their “enemies”!

  The war never really ended. Gateford became Gatford, and hostilities submerged. Gatfordites no longer respected Middle Kingdom. They feared it and used caution regarding it. They hunted in the woods, occasionally “bagging” a faerie; Gilly’s real father. I never did believe that he was blood-related to Garal.

  Now for the inspiring part.

  “You know, Alexi,” Garal said, “we speak of human beings and faeries. Yet both races—if we call them that—are flesh and bone. In reality—true reality—we are neither. We are mind, soul, spirit.”

  I waited for more. There had to be more.

  There was.

  “You know, Alexi,” he went on, “the body is surrounded by an invisible formfitting series of layers. These are fields of energy, each one more vital than the one below. The bottom layer is what has been called the aura. These layers continue to exist following bodily death. The body, you see, is only a mechanism, an organ the mind uses during physical life. Are you with me?”

  “I’m with you,” I told him. “Incredulous, but with you.”

  He smiled. “There you go,” he said. “Now.”

  He continued. To say that, just as the Earth has an atmosphere in which humans—and faeries—have their being, so does the aura provide a life-giving atmosphere for the body. During physical life, this aura interacts with the spiritual world.

  “In other words,” Garal said, “the spirit of our higher self—the outer layers—interacts with the Earth world.”

  “Are you saying,” I asked, “that these layers—these fields of energy—are in contact with the spirit world?”

  “Exactly,” he said, “using the material body as the basis.”

  “The body as a mechanism.”

  “The brain as an organ, yes.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m with it so far.”

  He smiled again. “Good,” he said. “Continuing, then.”

  This other existence of ours—our spiritual existence—is our soul. That continues after so-called death. This is our real self. This is Reality.

  Sleep, in fact, Garal told me, is a reflection of death. I no longer give credence to the word. We do not die. We pass on. Sleep has been—aptly—called the “twin brother” of death. While our physical body sleeps, our spiritual body remains awake. The body we use after we pass on.

  I know this is heavy stuff. I barely assimilated it when Garal was instructing me. I hope you do.

  “Some people, of course, die without dying,” he said. “Pass on but return. Humans call it ‘near death.’ A fitting description. They see a portion of Afterlife—what we refer to as ‘the Existence Following’—and, presently, return, or are drawn back against their will, to physical life. They never forget the experience. It affects the remainder of their life.” The great human psychologist Carl Jung (I was startled—but shouldn’t have been—that Garal knew about him) said that his near-death experience marked a “major” turning point in his work.

  “Just remember this,” Garal went on. “When we die (that now unacceptable word), we only pass on from one world to another.” This from Emanuel Swedenborg, a famous Earth theologian. Whose existence I was surprised that Garal knew about. I should have known better.

  His description of Afterlife—what he, personally, envisioned—was remarkably similar to the exquisite environment (good combo there) of Faerieland. I hope, by now, that the word “faerie” no longer makes you either grin or grimace. Believe me. They exist. So does their exquisite world.

  I told you it was an inspiring afternoon for me. If I have failed to convey the thrill and wonderment I felt at Garal’s words, forgive me. The woods. The weather. The breeze. Garal’s presence by my side. His words. It was all, to me, mesmerizing. If not to you, blame it on Arthur Black. I told you he was a deficient author. Or did I? Well, he is.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The next attack was unexpected. Just as bad. Just as awful.

  Ruthana and I were walking. After a while, she became a little weary. Her extra weight, you see. I forgot to tell you that a little time after I became an official little guy—though never according to Gilly—our “loving” produced the beginnings of a child in her lovely body. I believe they could decrease or extend their period of gestation at will. Ruthana’s choice was six to seven months. Accordingly, that afternoon, after we had walked awhile, she felt the need to rest.

  Notice how undramatically—even casually—I mentioned Ruthana’s pregnancy? (I still don’t like that word.) As opposed to my reaction when Magda announced that she was carrying “our child”? Her announcement knocked my socks off (as someone said). I really didn’t want a child. To my discredit, I should have taken steps to prevent its conception. But then it might have happened anyway. Magda wanted it. That I firmly believe. She did nothing to prevent it.

  And I was the surrogate father—in lie
u of Edward. Anyway, I was shocked at her announcement. Or should I say “pronouncement”? Any way you look at it, her body was not conceiving a love child. God knows how she really felt about that baby. Toward the end not much, that was for sure. The memory of its (imagined) enforced “birth” will remain with me forever. That damned manuscript.

  With Ruthana, the entire parentage experience was heavenly. She seemed to relish the gestation more each day. She would pat her stomach gently and speak to the baby endearingly—as though she had no doubt whatever that the baby could hear every loving word. Which, for all I knew, the baby did—enjoying the sweet verbal caressings—as any baby would.

  My point is this—in case I have failed (and probably have) to convey it. Magda carried a plan; Ruthana a baby conceived in love. Big difference there.

  At any rate, Ruthana needed a rest.

  One more addendum. Two. Number one—we were resting in a meadow. It was early November, but the day, despite the date (pretty good triplet there, sorry) was not chilly at all. Summer persistent through fall, resisting winter. What winter? False autumn? Late summer? There’s another expression for it, but I forget it. Anyway I, later, learned that there was no quartet of seasons in Faerieland, only spring and summer.

  I do remember that Ruthana seemed a little sad that day. I didn’t know why. She was usually so redolent with cheer that her dispirit disturbed (I won’t say it) me. While we were resting, her lying down, her golden-haired head in my lap, I asked her what was bothering her.

  “It’s the eleventh day of the eleventh month,” she answered.

  Or was it an answer? Two questions popped into my brain. Was the baby eleven months old? What happened to the six to seven months’ choice? And two, were the two elevens part of some faerie ritual I knew nothing about?

  Both questions redundant, as it turned out.

  “The war is over,” she said. “Germany surrendered.”

  “Well … isn’t that good?” I asked, pleased to hear it.

  She didn’t reply at first.

  “Ruthana?”

  Her voice broke as she answered, “Not for Haral.”

  Oh. I felt guilt. And shame. I should have known.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I should have known.”

  She smiled (bravely, I thought), picked up my hand, and kissed its back. “I understand.” She paused. “You knew him, though. You were there when he—died.”

  “I was there when he lived, too,” I told her, trying to cheer her. “He was my good friend.” I hoped he was.

  “I know he was,” she said. “It’s been a comfort knowing that. I miss him so.”

  Still trying to cheer her, I told her what else I could remember about Harold. How we met, the splashing of mud, how we sat together during bombardments, how he guided me to Gatford, even providing me with the wherewithal to live there.

  “He must have known that I’d meet you,” I said. “He was our Cupid.”

  She smiled again, apparently at peace now, and closed her eyes.

  I watched her as she slept. Dear Lord, she was beautiful. Assuming there is a god and He is also god to the Middle Kingdom as to ours, He had created a masterpiece of grace and elegance in Ruthana’s appearance. Everything about her presentment was, beyond question, perfection. Oh, I do run on. You get my message, though. I was in total and enduring love with a flawless angel. Nuff puff for one book.

  No, not enough. I have not completed the portraiture of my beauteous faerie. Her eyes. An eerie blue green; yes, that undeniable combination. The blue of stirring water, the green of placid. Lustrous, searching eyes. I always felt that she was seeing far more than I was. That, in gazing at me, she was looking straight into my soul. How wonderful—yet, as I have indicated, eerie.

  Her skin. The color of rich cream with a translucent coating of rose pink. Her nose. Designed by the greatest Renaissance artists, ideal in every aspect. Her lips. My God, how perfect. How yearning to be kissed—which I did proliferately. Soft and warm and yielding. (Lord, even ancient Arthur Black is trembling in remembrance!) Her body. Well, let’s skip that. I’m not as old as the Red Sea, you know; the tide could rise.

  Well, to the attack.

  It began in such a subtle manner that, at first, I didn’t pay attention to it. I heard what seemed to be a slight wind overhead. To me, it registered as an autumn breeze. Stupid me. An autumn breeze indeed. It “blew” two or three times before I took notice of it as something to be conscious of. A recurring breeze. Which became, in consequent moments, a recurring wind. A rushing sound. Like the noise made, possibly—

  —by wings.

  Only after numerous repetitions of the sound did I become engaged. Not alarmed yet. Merely involved in the persistent—I must admit now, haunting—sound. Gradually I became—very slowly—cognizant of an anxious sensation. What was it? Clearly, a bird. But how big? And why, I began to wonder, was it constantly passing over us? Over. Over. Again and again. As though—the notion chilled me—searching.

  “Ruthana?” I murmured. I hated to wake her. She was sleeping so serenely. But I felt, somehow, that it was, probably, needed.

  She stirred, making a tiny sound that, under other circumstances, would have (what’s the phrase?) “turned me on.” As if I was ever turned off in her presence.

  I nudged her again. “Ruthana.” The sound—the rushing sound—the (now no doubt) wing sound—was closer overhead. “Ruthana,” I said, more urgently.

  She opened her eyes. Those wonderful blue green eyes. Staring into mine.

  “What’s that noise?” I began to ask.

  Before I could get the words out, she sat up and stood with astonishing quickness (considering the size of her baby-expanding stomach), a look of tensed apprehension on her face. “Up!” she cried—commanded, actually. She grabbed me by the arm and yanked me to my feet. “Run!” she gasped. And started racing me toward the distant woods.

  “What is it?” I asked, just able to breathe.

  “Griffin,” she answered.

  At which a bloodcurdling screech swept down from above. A great form dove down on us—me, in particular—I screamed at what felt like claws tearing at my back. They made me suddenly fall. I twisted over with a cry of pain. What I saw was enough to kill me with the sight. Today, it would put an end to me. At eighteen, I had embedded in my psyche, will to survive. So I was horrified, not wrenched from life.

  It was part lion, part eagle: its head and white-feathered wings those of an eagle; its body that of a lion except for its tail, which was that of a giant snake. It was the lion’s claws that had ripped at my back. I thought I heard thunder rolling in the sky.

  The eagle’s eyes were human. They seemed to regard me with rage, albeit they were milky and lacking a pupil.

  “Come!” I heard Ruthana’s voice command me. Her hand was clutching mine, pulling me up. The griffin’s wings thrashed at the ground as I began to run again. Scramble, actually. Bolt for the nearing woods, leaning forward as I scampered for my life, prevented by Ruthana from a face-forward tumbling onto the ground. I felt blood dribbling down my back, a throbbing ache. Behind me, I heard that awful screech again, the driving thrust of its wings as the griffin leaped into the air, pursuing us. How could Gilly shift himself to such a nightmare creature? I wondered for an instant. Then self-preservation took over, and once more, I attempted to run erect. In vain. I would definitely have lost it were it not for Ruthana’s supporting hand and arm.

  Again the violent crash on my back. I cried out, stricken. The pain was excruciating. I was sure I was being ripped apart. I jerked around once more, a scream of dread escaping me. The griffin’s eagle face was directly above mine, milky eyes staring. Its grisly screech enveloped me. I knew, in that moment, I was done for.

  Then, a miracle. At least, it seemed a miracle to me. With a sudden move, the lion’s weight was off my back. I heard the thrashing buffet of its wings. I turned to see.

  Ruthana stood with a hazel wand in her right hand, pointing it t
oward the griffin. (It was much like the wand Magda had used in healing my wound.) From its end, blue flame was projecting.

  “Quickly!” she cried; her voice sounded hoarse. “Into the woods!”

  I lurched to my feet and ran almost blindly toward the trees, trying to ignore the dreadful stabbing pain in my back. Behind and above, the griffin shrieked—in rage, it seemed—and I could hear the sound of its hurtling ascent as it continued chasing me. I sensed Ruthana running near me. Panting now. I’d never heard that sound before.

  Finally, the trees were around us and Ruthana jarred to a halt, gasping, out of breath, another sound I’d never heard from her.

  “It can’t get through the trees,” she managed to say.

  But it could. And did.

  At any rate, it tried, shattering its massive weight through the foliage, snapping off limbs and branches in its crazed attack. One of its wings was torn away. It shrieked with pain.

  “I don’t understand,” Ruthana said in a trembling childlike voice. “This is wrong.” The sound of dread in her voice was my most frightening moment of the entire assault. Terrorstricken, I was frozen to the ground as the huge creature smashed down within a foot of me. I saw the root ends of its lost wing spurting blood.

  I looked at Ruthana. She was staring at the fallen griffin, openmouthed, an expression of petrified disbelief on her face. I looked down at the griffin. What I saw then drove a cloud of blackness over me. I toppled over, losing consciousness. “Alexi!” I heard Ruthana’s cry of alarm before I was enveloped in night.

  What I saw was not dissimilar to the illustration in Magda’s hideous manuscript detailing the process of shape-shifting. In this case, what I saw was the bony structure of the white-feathered wing transforming gradually to the structure of a broken, blood-oozing arm. The lion’s body slowly altering to that of a shattered human form. The eagle head becoming, second by second, a human head, the eyes still milky, the face still taut with teeth-bared hatred.