by W.S. Lacey
North’s aunts were another matter entirely. His Most Important Aunt even went so far as to stand before them in her sitting room and deliver and impassioned sermon on ‘The Importance of Taking Care’, which ended with an account of the boy down the road who fell into a horse pond and didn’t drown “though he easily might have”. Spender and North bore this with visibly meek and contrite spirits. The Aunt was pleased that they seemed to take her instruction to heart and decided on the spot to send them to the seaside.
The seaside town was very pleasant. Spender and North were introduced to a pair of sisters to whom they said clever things and who told them clever things in return. (One was Margaret and the other was Charlotte; both were kind and accomplished, though Charlotte was quite forward.) Most days, from midmorning on, Spender and North would sit on the veranda and do nothing in particular as the gulls wheeled and the breezes blew and groups of children screamed and ran about with buckets and spades. It was gloriously normal and, at times, Spender and North wondered if perhaps they hadn’t dreamt it all. Of course, North could always uncover his eye and see some of the small children come back as old people to stand looking at a beach that was substantially different; things of that nature reminded him that some of it, at any rate, had been very real.
One day, they noticed that their days of leisure had all but passed and that they would soon have to go back to school. Reluctantly, they had one last luncheon with the sisters, packed their bags, and took their leave. On the train, Spender worked out a note to North’s aunt that he considered a masterpiece of civility and gratitude. They parted ways at the station with a ‘see you next month’ and North went to stay with his parents until the beginning of term.
And so, for some time, nothing particularly interesting happened. As North sat down to family dinners and Spender loafed around in a bored manner, neither were the least bit aware of the awful, bizarre, and terribly exciting events that would befall them in very short order.
Chapter Twelve
Tyre was burning, its ashes falling like snow from a red, hellish sky. From what North could see, everything around Tyre was also on fire, twisting and blackening in the flames. He was standing in a high place, watching the destruction of the city. Then, in the sudden and inexplicable way that one often finds in dreams, he was in a room.
“Oh, hello.” Simon the Chronicler was there, working at a desk and seemingly oblivious to the danger. “I was hoping you’d show up.”
“The city is burning” North said urgently.
“Yes, I know. Nearly everyone else is dead, which is why I’m glad to see you. I hadn’t anyone to read my manuscript to.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s nice to have an outside opinion. I’m too close to the subject, what with my impending death, and I don’t trust myself not to overwrite the thing.”
“Wouldn’t you rather try to escape instead?”
“Oh no. Now listen; we haven’t much time.” The Chronicler pushed his chair back and flattened his papers. “And the King came forth out of the tomb and was made whole. And the hill of the tomb crumbled and the King issued from within and fire goeth before him.
“In his left hand is death and in his right hand life. All is scattered before him and perisheth. No succor will he give nor respite, for it is not meet that the child should strike the father nor the people strike their god. From out the tomb came he and the sea did burn and the birds of the air and the beasts of the land did burn and the people, in their iniquity, were as chaff in the wind.” He let the paper roll up and stretched. “There’s more before that, of course. I’m almost done; I only have to add another bit about the land and sea and sky being wreathed in flame and something about him remaking the earth. What do you think?”
“My God- that’s terrible!”
“I thought some of it was quite good, especially the ‘succor nor respite’ part.”
“Is it true, though?” The Chronicler had gone to the window and was looking at the city.
“It turns out that the King is more than a king. He’s the creator and arbiter of us all. I’m beginning to think that killing him was a mistake.” Outside, a tower collapsed and sent up a plume of sparks. The Chronicler went back to his desk. “The floor’s getting hot, isn’t it?”
“Is there anything we can do?” North asked.
“I don’t think so. You could, perhaps. I believe you’re from another place entirely.” There was an unpleasant groaning and cracking sound and dust sifted down from the ceiling. The Chronicler rolled his manuscript neatly and put it in the desk. “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish this after all. Do you know, I’ve been wondering if this all mightn’t have happened before. I think history could be whatever the King likes. Maybe he dies and remakes the world more to his liking every time.” It was getting unbearably hot. The glass in the window cracked.
“It’s a little different this time, perhaps. I don’t know that you two were ever here before.”
Then the door was open- or gone- North wasn’t sure which. Adelard Odd stood in the flames. He looked abstracted, deep in thought, and he didn’t seem to notice North at first. Part of the ceiling caved in and at last he looked in North’s direction.
“I made a mistake, Mr. North. I don’t know what it was, but I can’t let you back in.” The rest of the ceiling collapsed.
#
North awoke in a cold sweat. He lay tangled in his bedclothes, staring up at the windowpane pattern that was cast in light and shadow above his bed. He felt something warm running past his ear and on to the pillow. He touched his face, looked at his hand, and found that that his nose was bleeding.
In the months since Spender and North had gone to the seaside, a chill had entered the air and the sun had become more and more reluctant to make a showing before eight o’ clock or after four. As a hatted and bundled North walked through the almost holy silence of a cold night, one of the first snows of the year began tumbling down in lonely, erratic flakes. He was not unappreciative and relished, in a secret and reserved way, the icy touches that lighted on his face.
#
“Was it a dream?” Spender sat, disheveled and not a little bleary, as North hung his muffler on the back of his chair and gingerly dabbed at his nose.
“I don’t know. It was unlike any dream I’ve ever had. Things were clear; they made sense; at least, as much sense as that place ever made. I felt pain.” North looked out the window. “What are you going to do?” Spender frowned thoughtfully.
“I suppose a lot of people don’t have mothers. Some died in awful ways; it’s not uncommon. But this was my mother. I think I have to go back, just to find out for sure.”
“Shall we wait until the end of term?”
“North, you really don’t have to come with me. It’s-”
“Yes, I know. I’ve somehow become involved with the place. It’s stayed with me and now I’ve had this dream, if you can call it that. Besides,” he smiled a bit, “I think you could do with some company.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was a party of some sort, afterwards neither could remember where exactly it had been or what it was for, but both could agree that it had been outside and that strings of lanterns hung above, running from the trees to pavilion and back again. It was held at the house of someone far wealthier than they, which wealth Spender ogled appreciatively and Fletcher regarded with annoyance.
“Look at it all,” he said in a low voice.
“You’re only jealous,” Spender said. “If you were oofy, you’d want to be great friends.”
“Do you know something?” Fletcher said. “You’re right.”
It was a wonderful evening, though they hardly knew anyone there. Mrs. Sutley-Howe, who they did know, introduced them to several people, most of whom talked to them indifferently for a while and drifted away. When the moon peered through the tangled tree branches above them and the dark grass beyond the revel had become heavy with dew, Fletcher caught Spen
der by the arm.
“I think we should go, don’t you?”
“We may as well.” Just then, Mrs. Sutley-Howe navigated towards them, bringing in her wake a young, dark haired girl.
“Mr. Spender, Mr. Fletcher; may I introduce Miss Cecilly Fitzmorris. Miss Fitzmorris; Mr. Arthur Spender and Mr. Alard Fletcher.” They pleasure-to-meet-you’d and how-do-you-do’d and Mrs. Sutley-Howe floated away in search of more people to introduce. Miss Fitzmorris looked at them as Spender tried valiantly to think of something witty to say.
“Mr. Fletcher,” she said, “am I very much mistaken, or were you just now planning to escape this party?” Fletcher’s eyebrows climbed a bit.
“I was. Mr. Spender and I were thinking of going to a café or chop-house. Once there, I intend to say rude things about most of the people we met here tonight.”
“Might I come with you?” Fletcher and Spender shared a moment of surprise.
“Please do,” Spender said without quite knowing what he was saying, “we should enjoy your company.”
“We’ll make it a café, then” Fletcher said.
If the beginning of the evening had been good, the rest of the night was better. Spender found witty things to say and, as he had predicted, Fletcher said cutting things about several of the guests. At one point, Spender looked at Cecilly and saw that a strand of her hair had come loose and was curled against her neck. She was saying something to Fletcher- arguing about something, he thought- her eyes full of light and spots of color high on her cheeks.
“Won’t there be a scandal if you’re missed at the party?” He said suddenly. “Your parents may object.”
“I live with my aunts, neither of whom will notice my absence.”
“Why is that?” Spender asked.
“Because you will be taking me back, Mr. Spender.”
“It is getting late,” Fletcher said, drawing his watch, “we’d better go.” With some regret, they left and returned Miss Fitzmorris to a party filled with wilted flowers, sore feet, and crumpled napkins beside empty glasses. They left her, each weary but exhilarated, and set out for their own rooms. Spender’s was first and they stopped at the door.
“Well,” Fletcher said, “goodnight.”
“Yes,” Spender said, “goodnight.” They did not look at each other for long. Spender went to his rooms to pace back and forth and Fletcher went on foot, his hands deep in his pockets, staring fiercely at the pavement in front of him.
#
The first note read
Mr. and Mrs. Sidney G. Fitzmorris
request the honor of
Mr. Alard Fletcher’s
presence at the marriage of their daughter
Cecilly Ann
with
Mr. Arthur Spender
on Friday, the 21st of June
at four o’clock
St. Thomas’s Church
Fletcher read the second note again.
“Dear Alard, I tried to call on you the other day but you weren’t in. I would very much like to see you. Arthur asked after you and said that he hoped you would be able to make it to the wedding. Please do come, Alard; it would make me very happy. Yours, Cecilly.”
He tore both notes to pieces, threw them to the floor and stalked out his door, hat in hand.
#
As they knew, to an extent, what would happen to them this time, Spender and North were able to better plan their absence. North told his family that he was going to do something like skiing or alpinism (he wasn’t very consistent) and that he should be back well in time for Christmas. Spender, unfortunately, didn’t have to tell anyone much of anything, but he hardly noticed in the midst of the preparations. On the day before their departure, his floor was covered with provisions and Potentially Useful Things.
“This is a good idea,” North said, picking up a small hatchet, “we may need something like this.”
“I believe I got two of everything,” Spender said. “There’s rope and there are matches and flint and tinder in case the matches don’t work; there are two knives- one for each of us- and I got hardtack, though I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It seems to be like bread, only it’s rubbish.”
“D’you think we’ll need a tent?” North toyed with his hatchet, which he had grown quite fond of.
“I did think about that. It was never particularly cold, so I thought we could make do with blankets- to save space, you know.”
The next day found them making the long drive to Quartersoake through a chill, barren morning. The fields they passed were heaved and humped with frost and covered with a thin blanket of snow through which bits of stubble poked in clumps and files. The puddles that perpetually dotted the road to the asylum were thinly iced over and collapsed into a muddy slurry as they drove through them. Spender and North, who were expecting to see a half-asylum, were again surprised.
“Apparently, Mr. Webley and the workers came to some sort of agreement,” North said. The other half of the asylum had been torn down, all the way to Odd’s room, so that the only part of the building left standing was a lone precarious tower made up of the walls below Odd’s Door, with the Door itself at the top. It looked as if the slightest wind might knock it over and Spender sat for a moment, not quite knowing what to do. North looked resolute. “It seems that we’ll have to do a bit of climbing.”
“Do you think we should still go on?” Spender asked.
“We’ve come this far, haven’t we?”
They found a sheltered spot for the Humber and walked through what had become a field to stand at the foot of the tower.
“If you could give me a leg up, I can pull you up to the first storey and we’ll go on from there” North said. The rope had immediately come in handy and, as they climbed the second and third stories, Spender privately congratulated himself on his provisioning.
“Do you think it will still work?” he said, suddenly worried. They had reached Odd’s Door and were standing on the narrow ledge that had once been the floor.
“I expect it will. I wonder if the rest of the asylum is there on the other side, or if we’ll have to climb back down.” Spender carefully opened the Door out towards them.
“I don’t see anything,” he said, “do you-” a gust of wind issued from the other side of the Door and, as Spender and North leaned into it to avoid being knocked off of the tower, it abruptly subsided. With a short yell of consternation, they both tumbled through the doorway and plunged
Chapter Fourteen
only a short distance before landing on and sinking into a deep snowdrift. Spender floundered to his feet. Snow had gone down his collar and inside his boot; this preoccupied him to the extent that it was several minutes before he realized he had lost his pack in the fall. North had struggled out of the snow and was digging around.
“Mine’s gone as well,” he said. Spender began searching through the snow.
“They can’t have gone so far.” North pulled off his eye patch and beat it against his pant leg to get the snow off it. As he did so, he looked around.
“They have; gone, that is. I don’t know how but they aren’t anywhere.” Spender was understandably crestfallen to hear this and drew his coat around him in a mildly dejected manner. “This is curious, isn’t it?” North said. Beyond the remnant of the asylum, a deep forest of evergreens ringed them in, all laden and clad in white. Whereas the world they had left was in the grips of weather that was indifferent at best, this was a deep, prolonged, serious snow. It was the kind that precluded “Just going round the corner to get some things” or “I’ll just be a bit late today”. It was, in short, the kind of snow that keeps one at home and secretly delights one with thoughts of an icy cataclysm in which no one ever telephones or comes around soliciting.
“We can’t very well stay here,” Spender said.
“Well,” North looked first one way and then the other, “which way did you go last time?”
“Last time I just picked a d
irection at random. I think I went in a straight-rightish line from the entrance. North, we won’t last a day in this cold without the proper supplies; we’ll just have to go back and come again when we’re better prepared.”
“All right.” North looked up at the Door. “It may be easier said than done. Let’s give it a go, though.” He was right. Without the rope and hampered by the deep drifts of snow all around, they had some difficulty in beginning their climb. Spender was giving North footing on his shoulder and trying to brace himself when he heard a long, drawn out sound drifting through the trees. His skin prickled and his mouth suddenly felt very dry. He had heard that same sound just before running out of the Sometimes woods and into the outskirts of Tyre.
“North, North,” he said quietly and urgently, “get down, quickly. We have to go.” North climbed down and looked curiously at him.
“Go where?”
“That way. Now.” Spender led the way away from the tower as the cry of Aghlich again sounded behind them.
“What was that?” North asked as they plunged ahead, skirting around trees and stumps.
“It was the Thing;” Spender said in the same low voice, “it’s coming this way.” North, who had heard Spender’s account of the Thing and had seen Spender seeing it (after a fashion), knew the danger.
“I thought it was supposed to only come out at night?”
“So are the trees.” North dared a look back and saw some distance straight through the trees. What he saw made him stumble and Spender reached back to catch him by the sleeve. As they ran, they could hear the Thing gaining on them, its great snout snorting and billowing.
They were just running past an uprooted tree when North saw a hollow in the ground left by the roots, which hung over it like a curtain and, covered with snow as they were, made the hole nearly invisible. With a ‘Come on!’, he pulled Spender with him and they tumbled into the hole. Moments later, the Thing blundered by them in a blur of size and ferocity. North motioned for Spender to stay still and they both laid flat and listened. They could hear the Thing lose its momentum and swing around. It had lost them, perhaps because of the snow, and was moving in circles to try to pick up the trail again. As the sounds of its movements faded, Spender and North cautiously pushed out of the hollow. Spender looked around.
